Oh, Kiddos
by WRTRD
Summary: A chance meeting leads to a grand scheme. Set during S3. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

Martha Rodgers considers herself a modern, up-to-date woman, especially for one of a Certain Age, and living with her son and her teenaged granddaughter definitely helps keep her young. But there are things about the times that she does not like, changes that she laments, or that enrage her. Really and truly. Gloves, for one. Is she the only woman left on the island of Manhattan who still understands the importance of gloves? She's wearing a beautiful pair now, fuchsia. They set off the border on her silk scarf, which any Parisienne could tell you is also an absolutely indispensable part of a woman's wardrobe.

But as she stands here on the corner of 43rd Street and Tenth Avenue, tapping a beautifully shod (if she does say so) foot, she thinks of something far more crucial than gloves: manners. What has happened to manners? They've crumbled to dust, gone down in flames. Richard isn't here with her–no one is, which is the point–to tell her to stop mixing metaphors, so she'll go right on doing it. Why, for instance, has the handwritten thank-you note, a grace note of civilization, disappeared? Oh, that's good. She must write that down: the thank-you note as a grace note.

The most recent lapse of good manners is what has her so irritated now. She had bought tickets for a new play off-Broadway, by a young writer who was unknown until three months ago. The entire run is a sell-out. She had had to resort to Richard's ticket broker to get the coveted pasteboards that she's clutching in her fuchsia-clad hands. One hour ago–one hour!–her friend Clarissa had texted her that she couldn't come because her 15-month-old grandson was having his first haircut and she _had_ to go. "I'm sure someone will leap at the chance to have that ticket."

There are so many lapses of manners, of endangered civility, in the text. First, it's a text! At the very least Clarissa should have phoned to apologize. Texting can be very useful, but it's also contributing to the decline of manners. IMHO, she says to herself, mentally rolling her eyes as she thinks of that darling Katherine Beckett, the best eye-roller she has ever seen. But back to the point. She may be _au courant_, but if she were ever going to use the dreadful phrase IMHO, she would at least type out the whole thing: in my humble opinion. Furthermore, in her experience there is seldom humility in someone's opinion that is expressed in a text. Second, Clarissa's excuse is just plain outrageous. A haircut is not a milestone. Surely her daughter will take a hundred photos, not to mention videos, of the little boy in the barber's chair. Dear Lord. Third, and most pressing, how is she, Martha, supposed to find someone to accompany her to the theater with virtually no advance warning? It's true that many people would leap at the chance to have the extra ticket, but as she scans the horde in the waiting-for-cancellations line she shudders at the prospective leapers. The five or six people holding up handmade signs that say I NEED A TICKET seem even worse as potential seat mates. She could turn her ticket in at the box office, but that is almost unthinkable. Who knows who might plop his or her derrière down next to her? They might chew gum. They might suck noisily on candies, rattling them against their teeth. They might fidget. Or worse, text!

She's approaching the nadir of despair when she notices a man joining the end of the cancellation line. Could it be? She looks a little harder. Well, knock her over with an ostrich feather! She'd met the man only in passing, and Richard complains about his curmudgeonliness, but surely he is the most promising choice out here. He's a highly educated man. With a very nice cashmere coat and actual shoes, unlike all the sneaker-wearers around him. That does it. She walks over to him and smiles.

"Doctor Perlmutter, isn't it? I'm Martha–"

"Rodgers!" He smiles in return. According to her son, the man does nothing but glower, yet here he is, beaming. He shakes her hand warmly. "No introduction is necessary. I'm surprised that you recognized me, though."

"Oh, that's an important thing for an actor, Doctor. We were introduced at last year's precinct holiday party, to which I was so kindly invited."

"That's right. And please, call me Sidney. Are you trying to get a ticket? There are so many people ahead of us I'm afraid we have no chance."

"Are you a theater aficionado, Sidney?"

"Oh, yes. I still remember the first time I saw you onstage. It was in a tiny experimental theater on East Seventeenth Street. The play was _Well Furnished_ and lasted about a minute. Everyone portrayed a piece of furniture and you were utterly magnificent as a wingback chair. You stole the show."

In that moment she's over the moon that Clarissa ditched her in favor of little Tyler's tonsorial outing. Sidney Perlmutter, to her delight and astonishment, is obviously a man of taste and culture. "Oh, my, I'm stunned that you recall that," she says, hand at her cheek. "Never mind that you were even there."

"Recall it? I still have the Playbill. Well, nothing as grand as that, but the mimeographed piece of paper listing the cast and the behind-the-scenes team. It's pink, rather like your gloves–minus the elegance, of course." He chuckles and smiles again.

"Believe it or not, Sidney, I found myself with an extra ticket only an hour ago. Would you care to join me?"

"Really?"

"Really." She waves the tickets in a small gesture of triumph.

"I'm thrilled. I'll write you a check as soon as we're seated."

"Nonsense. It's on me. Actually, it's on my friend Clarissa, who cancelled so abruptly and for a ridiculous reason. She doesn't expect to get her money back." She lowers her voice as if she were passing along secrets to a co-conspirator. "She doesn't need it, either. Shall we go in?"

Both experienced theatergoers, they head for the restrooms before the intermission-less performance, but still have a few minutes to chat before the curtain rises.

"Oh, that was marvelous," she says two hours later, as the house lights come back up and she gets to her feet.

"It's exciting to find a new talent, isn't it?" he responds, helping her on with her coat. "To be present at the creation."

"What a lovely phrase."

"I wish I could take credit for it. It's the title of a book by Dean Acheson, about his years in the State Department, but I occasionally apply the language to other things."

"Like this."

"Exactly like this." He checks his watch. "It's just past five. May I buy you a glass of wine? There's a nice, quiet place about ten minutes' walk from here where we could have an actual conversation as well as a good Merlot. Or something stronger, if that's your inclination."

"Merlot will do very nicely. Thank you, Sidney."

They spend a companionable hour and a half in the little bistro. It interests her that though they get on famously, there is no romantic attraction. None. Oddly, it's also a relief. They talk at length about the play, and to a much lesser extent about their personal lives.

She tells him a little about having raised Richard on her own. She doesn't tell him exactly why she moved in with him and Alexis, but maybe she will one day. She has a sense that they're on the road to being good friends.

He tells her that he has been a widower for many years. "I'm a scientist, and have no truck with the notion of soul mates, except when it came to my late wife. It was an ideal marriage and I have no intention of marrying again. Besides, I'm too set in my ways. And living on my own, I can indulge myself, like going to the theater twice a week. And eating peanut brittle for breakfast, which I often do on the weekend."

That makes her laugh. "That sounds like something Richard would do. Right from the start he was rigorous about feeding Alexis nothing but healthy meals, and he has become a terrific cook. But he does love to indulge his inner junk food junkie."

"Peanut brittle isn't entirely junk."

"I'm sure that my son would agree with you. Although he'd probably argue that it's health food."

"Ah, because of the peanuts. Let's see. Protein, for one. Antioxidants. Fiber. Iron. Magnesium. I can almost hear him reciting the list."

There's a silence with an undercurrent of awkwardness as Sidney shifts uncomfortably on his banquette. "I apologize, Martha. I'm afraid that sounded rude."

"Not at all. You know, I think you two might have more in common than either of you realizes. Or admits."

"We do tend to snipe at each other. Perhaps I should offer him some peanut brittle the next time I see him. A peace offering."

"Well, I'm aware that Richard can be something of a know-it-all, which can be very irritating. And a show-off, though far less so than he used to be, for which I credit Detective Beckett."

"Ah, Detective Beckett. She's a remarkable young woman." He pauses and looks at his hands. "I assume you know her family history?"

"You mean her mother's murder? Yes, I do."

"Beckett was in a forensic pathology seminar I taught when she was at the Police Academy. She was dazzling–an absolute standout. I do it once every year, and the students' questions are usually fairly predictable, especially with the advent of TV shows like _CSI_. But Beckett brought up such fascinating issues, and displayed such a sharp intellect. I was so impressed that I asked her training office about her and learned that her mother had been killed only a few years before. She was very mature and composed, but I could sense that mix of grief and anger just under the surface. Cops tend to have a mordant sense of humor. I understand, because it's a form of self-preservation. But of all the ones I've worked with, Beckett has by far the most respect for the victims."

"Richard has said that about her, not in those exact words, but that's the sentiment."

"I'm interested in what you said about Beckett's influence on him, making him less of a show-off."

"Oh, it's true. I think initially she might have been doing it to bring him down a peg or two, but later." She stops there. Perhaps this is territory she shouldn't be exploring just yet. She sees Sidney's expectant look, as if he's about to finish her sentence–and he does.

"But later she was a little softer? One might even say affectionate? Though she'd probably throttle me for suggesting it."

They both laugh over that. "Yes, she might."

"I hope I haven't sounded hard on Cas–on your son. What I wanted to say is that I think he has had a softening affect on Beckett, too. He makes her laugh, which is transformative. And I should add that when we're discussing a homicide he also often asks questions that no one else does."

"Sometimes a little loony?"

"Sometimes Martian, but the good ones are remarkable. I'm ashamed to say that I don't compliment him as often as I should. In fact, virtually never."

"I think his ego can stand it, Sidney. Though some peanut brittle might be nice."

"I'll remember that." He smiles again. "What a delightful afternoon this has been, Martha. An unexpected treat, to say the least. I would love to return the favor and invite you to the theater sometime, if that's of interest."

"I wouldn't dream of saying no."

"There's something that's about to close that I've got my eye on. _The Rabbit in the Hat_. Have you heard of it?"

"Oh, yes. It's supposed to be beyond awful."

"That's sort of why I want to see it. So I can enjoy watching that appalling Joy Connors fall on her face."

"I loathe Joy Connors. She stole a man away from me decades ago, for which I've never forgiven her. Also a part, for which I have forgiven her."

"She stole a part from you? Which one?"

"This one! Alice in _Rabbit in the Hat_."

After a good deal more laughing they agree to meet on Wednesday afternoon for the matinee, since he has the day off. As they live in opposite directions, they take separate cabs. On the way home she makes the executive and maternal decision not to tell her son that she not only went to the theater with Sidney Perlmutter, but had a terrific time.

As she gets ready for bed, the germ of an idea begins to sprout. She wonders if she has, in fact, found a conspirator. She'll see how things go on Wednesday.

Things go very well on Wednesday. Joy Connors gives a terrible performance, which she and Sidney relish. At dinner afterward he explains that his intense dislike for her stems from a Theater Talk evening he went to years ago when she was "self-aggrandizing, wildly self-promoting, and dismissive of Uta Hagen. That did it for me."

"Music to my ears, Sidney," she says, and they clink glasses.W

When they're nearing dessert, she decides to take the plunge. "May I ask your opinion about something?"

"I'd be flattered."

"It's about my son."

"You want my opinion about your son? Really? And by the way, I've not forgotten the peanut brittle."

"You're a man of science, as you said the other day, but you're also obviously a fine observer of the human condition. It's obvious from the way you talk about drama."

"Well, thank you. Although I'm not sure what that has to do with Castle."

"In your honest opinion, what do you think he thinks of Detective Beckett?"

"What do I think he thinks? I think he thinks she walks on water. The Hudson, the East River, the Central Park Reservoir, the Atlantic Ocean. Any water in the world."

"And? Because I'm sure there's an 'and' just waiting to come out."

"And I think he's madly in love with her."

"Mmhmm. So do I. Not that he's told me, of course. And what do you think she thinks of him?"

"I think that's a lot more complicated, though it needn't be. I think she's trying to resist, and I doubt that she'd admit it to anyone, but I think she's madly in love with him."

"You know what I think? I think, different as they may appear to be? They're soul mates. And they're driving me crazy. Those two belong together and they keep screwing it up. They never talk, which is really odd, because Richard is a very talkative man."

"Loquacious."

"Oh, yes."

"And? Because, to quote you, I'm sure there's an 'and' just waiting to come out."

"And I want to get them together. If there were ever a time for me to be a matchmaker, this is it."

"I saw you be a matchmaker once. When you filled in for two weeks in the _Hello, Dolly!_ revival in 1995. I have no doubt you'll be just as successful offstage."

"Not on my own, I won't. Those kiddos need to get together, and I need help doing it. Are you in?"

He looks right, and left, and right again, before looking at her. "I'm in."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

When Martha arrives home from the theater and dinner on Wednesday evening, she's surprised to find–along with the usual junk mail–a slate blue envelope waiting for her. The postage stamp is a black-and-white photo of Katharine Hepburn; the handwriting is unfamiliar, and there's no return address. Hmmm. She carries it up to her room, deploys her antique letter-opener, and pulls out the slate blue paper. It's from Sidney, thanking her for having invited him to use her extra ticket to the theater on Saturday.

"As a scientist," he begins, "I'm also not much of a believer in coincidence, but I've put my doubts aside for a moment, after the wonderful happenstance of the two of us running into each other outside the theater yesterday."

It goes on delightfully from there, and ends in a P.S.

"You will have noticed that I did not include my address on the envelope: I did so on the off-chance that your son might see it and, curiosity aroused, use his considerable skill in determining who lives there. We mustn't tip our hand!"

Well, what do you know, she thinks, as she pulls on her sleep mask. A thank-you note! Civility is not dead. And neither are craft and guile.

Sidney Perlmutter, M.D., is used to finding very little in his mailbox except for medical journals and pleas for money from dozens of perpetually underfunded theaters. So when he unlocks his box in the lobby late Wednesday evening, he's taken aback to discover a shocking pink envelope lying on top of the new issue of _JAMA_. When he flips it over he sees, embossed on the flap, the name and address of the sender: Martha Rodgers.

He waits to open it until he reaches his apartment on the twenty-second floor. Ah. Well, that's not a surprise. Of course Martha writes thank-you notes. It was hardly necessary, he'd only bought her two glasses of wine, but how nice. When he's brushing his teeth later he remembers having mentioned coincidences in his note, and here's another. They both write thank-yous and his probably also arrived today. She had signed hers "Martha, a.k.a Dolly."

Playing matchmaker with her, he thinks as he turns out the light, is going to be fun.

Martha had suggested that he make the opening move in what he calls Cupids' Chess, and so he shall. It's Sunday morning, and he's in his kitchen preparing for it. Since childhood he has been mad about peanut brittle. Some time ago he spent the better–certainly sweeter–part of a year in search of the perfect recipe, experimenting as seriously he had in his student days in the lab, the difference being that here he's making candy, not something involving sulfuric acid. He tweaked recipe after recipe, setting more of one ingredient against less of another, until the final product was worthy of the gods. "Which certainly makes it worthy of Richard Castle," he says as he pours the rich, golden mixture onto a large baking sheet. Once it has cooled he'll break it into pieces and store it in an air-tight container, which he'll keep in his locker at work until the perfect moment arises. His gambit, in Cupids' Chess, is simple: he will offer Castle some peanut brittle.

The perfect moment arises more quickly than he'd expected. The next day Lanie Parrish calls in sick with a dental abscess, and he's summoned to a crime scene at 7:30 in the morning. It's grim and gritty, a dark, narrow, litter-strewn area behind the long-abandoned loading dock of a shuttered building. He's been there for only a few minutes when Beckett and Castle pull up in her car. As he watches them approach he's keenly aware of the chemistry between them. He'd been a chemistry major in college, before med school, so he knows plenty about it. Granted, this is a different kind of chemistry, but chemistry nonetheless. If he were a betting man, which he isn't, he'd wager a month's salary that she would squash the very suggestion of chemistry, and Castle is so smitten with her that he probably couldn't even spell the word in her presence.

"Morning, Perlmutter."

"Good morning, Detective Beckett. And Castle."

"Morning." He infers that that's what Martha's son says, though it's hard to be sure since the man has a powdered-sugar doughnut protruding from his mouth.

"What have you got for us?" she asks.

"We know his name, Felix DeVito, from the driver's license in his wallet. Forty-three years old, lives–or lived–about two blocks from here, on Lafayette Street."

"Unfortunate name," Castle says as he leans over the body. "Definitely not a great day for a guy whose name means lucky."

"Castle," he says, waving him off with a latex-gloved hand. "Could you stand back, please? You're about to drop crumbs into an open wound."

"Sorry."

"Speaking of open wounds," Beckett asks as she points at the victim's neck, where blood has congealed around a bullet hole, "is this a through and through?"

"Yes, but the assailant also shot Mister DeVito in the chest and stabbed him in the heart. Probably about two hours ago."

"Whoa," Castle says. "Murder trifecta. Which one killed him?"

He could make a highly educated guess–more than a guess, really–but instead gives a stock response: "Won't be sure until I can do a thorough exam at the morgue." Besides, he has something there that he wants to give the doughnut devourer, and he has to be in the morgue to do it.

Around 2:00 he texts Beckett to tell her that he has some results and preliminary findings that he could discuss with her and Castle as soon as they're ready.

"We'll be there in 20," she replies.

He's worked with her enough to know that unless something serious happens, she's prompt. One minute ahead of her ETA, the two walk through the door. He is crunching a piece of peanut brittle more noisily than he considers polite, but he has to make sure that Castle, at least, notices. He makes something of a product of chewing and then swallowing.

"Forgive me," he says. "I didn't have time for lunch and I needed something to give me a little blast of sugar and protein."

"You eat in here?" Castle says, not bothering to mask his horror.

"Well, not meals, and not in a way that could contaminate anything. I ducked across the hall to my locker a moment ago and got a little home-made peanut brittle. It's a great pick-me-up at this time of day."

Astonishment has replaced horror on Castle's face. "You have home-made peanut brittle? Where do you get it?"

"At home. I make it myself."

"You do?" Castle gapes at him as if he'd just said that he'd invented cold fusion.

"Yes. It took me ages to get the recipe right. You know, like adding a dash of vanilla extract. From Madagascar. Would you care for some? To take with you, of course, not to have here."

This morning Castle had almost dropped doughnut crumbs onto unlucky Mr. DeVito's neck; now he looks as if he might drool on him. "Oh, yes, please."

"I hate to break up this little candy love fest," Beckett says.

Love fest? She has no idea what lies ahead.

"But you said you had some information for us."

"I do." He gives them, among other things, a more concise time of death, the unusual caliber of the bullets, the trajectories, and what kind and size knife the killer probably used.

"The stabbing was last, wasn't it?" Castle says.

"Yes. What makes you think so?"

"Well, Felix was–"

"DeVito," Beckett corrects him with the hint of a frown.

"Right. DeVito was obviously facing his killer when he was shot. I don't think the guy stabbed him and then put a couple of bullets in him. DeVito must have fallen backwards from the impact, and then took the knife to the heart. Whoever killed him really, really hated him. Something personal, maybe an old grudge."

"From what we've pieced together so far," Beckett says, looking first at the body and then at him, "we think DeVito may have been connected."

"But the post-mortem stabbing–was it post-mortem?" Castle asks.

"Yes," he replies. "Mister DeVito's heart had stopped beating before the knife went through it."

"Post-mortem stabbing makes it look less like a hit and more personal, like revenge, which kind of widens the net of suspects."

"Good point, Mister Castle. And there's something else that gives credence to your theory."

"There is?" He looks astonished at this unprecedented show of support from the medical examiner.

"Yes. Someone–presumably the killer, though I couldn't swear to it–also spat on the victim. I found traces of saliva at the site of the knife wound, right next to his heart. I'm running DNA but won't have anything for a while."

They talk with him for another minute or so, and turn to leave.

"Would you like that peanut brittle?" he asks Castle. "If you wait ten seconds I can put some in a ziplock bag for you." Knowing that the man has no problem with gore but is also oddly squeamish, he adds, "And don't worry, I'll get a bag fresh out of the box. Not a whiff of morgue miasma."

He listens intently when the not-yet-a-couple walks down the corridor to the elevator. "Did you hear that, Beckett? He said 'Good point, Mister Castle'."

"I did. I'll put a gold star on your chart when we get back to the precinct."

He smiles inwardly. Just wait until Castle tries the peanut brittle. The opening move in Cupids' Chess has been made. It was like taking–or in this case, giving–candy to a baby.

Martha is capable of great patience, but she's having trouble finding it this evening. She checks her watch repeatedly, willing her son to come home, but the hands move no faster and he's still not here. At 7:00 she orders sushi for Alexis and herself. At 8:50, while her granddaughter is upstairs doing her homework and she's flipping through an issue of _Vogue_ that she has already committed to memory, the door opens and Richard bounds through.

"Well, aren't you full of pep," she says. "Did you have a good day, dear?"

"I did. No, I had a great day."

"Solve a murder?"

"Not yet, but we're on the way. Listen to this, Mother, you won't believe it. You know Perlmutter?"

"The M.E.? Of course. I met him at the holiday party, and I listen to you complain about him at least once a week."

"Well, with reason. But not today." He tells her about the conversation in the morgue, and finishes exultantly. "And you know what he said?"

"I have no idea, but I'm sure that you're about to tell me."

"He said, 'Good point, Mister Castle.' I mean, this is a guy who probably hands out one compliment a decade. And guess what else?"

"Well, you're bouncing the way you used to it your play pen, so it must be something remarkable."

"It is. He gave me a bag of peanut brittle."

She has seldom been so grateful of her many decades–she's loath to acknowledge how many–of training and work on stage, not to mention a stint on the soap opera _Temptation Lane_, as she is now, feigning ignorance and surprise. "Peanut brittle? What on earth for?" There should be a domestic Tony Award for something like this.

"He was eating a piece and told me it was home-made. I wondered where he'd gotten it, and it turns out he makes it. And he uses Madagascan vanilla."

"Really?" She puts a perfectly arched brow into play.

"Who'd have thought it, right? Anyway, I guess I looked interested and the next thing I knew he gave me some. And it's unbelievable. The best thing I've eaten all year. Seriously. And from the guy who I thought was a permanent sourpuss. Obviously I was wrong. I have to credit Beckett."

Ah ha! "Katherine? For what?"

"Well, she acknowledges that Perlmutter is a grouch, but she kind of likes him, too. She's told me a couple of times that she's had some interesting conversations with him. She maintain that he has a soft side."

"Maybe she's right. Doesn't it take someone with a soft side to make peanut brittle that's the best thing you've eaten all year? And by the way, how about letting your dear old mother have a little taste?"

He scrunches up his face in a way that has turned her to mush since he was too young to walk. "Sorry. I ate all of it."

"Maybe he'll give you the recipe." Oh, that was an ad lib, and out of her mouth before she knew it. Well, no harm done. Some of life's best moments are unrehearsed.

"Good idea. I'll ask him."

"Perhaps if you sent him a thank-you note first."

"Geez."

"Some things never go out of fashion, sweetheart. Or shouldn't." She should stop now. Cupids' Chess is a game that must be well thought out. She yawns as if she means it. "I think I'm going to turn in. I've had a long day."

"Good night, Mother."

"Good night, Richard. I'm glad you got a compliment from the doctor. Clearly it was well-deserved."

Mentally she's flying up the stairs, two steps at a time. She can't wait to talk to Sidney. As soon as she's in her room, door closed, she phones him.

"Hello, Martha?"

"Hello, Sidney. You must be a genius. Richard can barely contain himself, between the praise you paid him and the gift of the peanut brittle. The Madagascan vanilla really impressed him."

"It should. I thought it might. You did say he's an excellent cook."

"You've softened him up. And if you've done it as well as I think you have, he'll be singing your praises to Katherine all day tomorrow, and she'll be pleased that he's come around."

"She'll think of it as character growth."

"Well, it is."

He chuckles. "Nice of you to say so. Now, I believe you're in charge of the next move?"

"I am."

"Detective Beckett won't know what's hit her."

"That's because I'll wear velvet gloves."

TBC

**A/N** Thank you very much for your good cheer for the story so far.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

It's been a long and frustrating day for Kate Beckett, who's making no progress on what had originally appeared to be a slam-dunk case and has proven to be anything but. As soon as she's inside her apartment she swaps her work clothes for her bathrobe and slippers, and nukes the slice of pizza that she'd bought on her way home. If she weren't so damn tired she'd eat standing up at the kitchen counter, but instead she puts the pizza on a small plate, pours herself a glass of water, and collapses on the sofa.

She's about two-thirds of the way up the slice when she realizes that she hasn't checked her personal email for hours, so she picks up her phone from the coffee table and starts scrolling. One message stands out as if it were lit by a neon sign–which, figuratively, it is. It's from Castle's mother, and she clicks on it so quickly that she doesn't even register that the gummy remains of crust, tomatoes, basil, and mozzarella have landed on her lap.

"Dear Katherine,

I still have your email address from the time you stayed with us in the loft last year, after your apartment was destroyed. Despite the awful circumstances, it was marvelous to have you here.

You must be wondering why I'm writing, and it's this: day after tomorrow on Varick Street there's a sample sale of Che Bella shoes, which is a first, as I'm sure you know or could guess. There's never even a tiny discount on those beauties! I remember our discussion of a shared passion for them, when you were mourning the loss of a pair of their boots that the fire had consumed. Would you like to join me on Saturday? I would so enjoy your company. Furthermore, to quote my son, you're such a 'world-class, bad-ass detective' that I feel confident that you could protect us from all the harpies who swoop down on events like these, clawing their way through the crowd.

If you're interested, and I do hope you are, we should be there when the doors open at 9 o'clock. I can't imagine anything else that would get me out of bed at that hour on a weekend!

Your fellow fabulous footwear fan,

Martha

P.S. Please don't tell Richard. I like to do shopping excursions like this on the q.t., although you'd think that he'd appreciate a 60% discount!"

Her reaction to the email is a jumble of emotions, but the dominant ones are surprise and delight. Martha isn't the last person she expected to email her, but she never has nor has she had reason. What a nice first one this is, though: to let her know about a sale and invite her to come along. She's about to type her reply when Martha's aversion to technology comes to mind: she loves her cell phone for speaking with her friends and family, but email? That's another step entirely. Very occasionally Martha has texted Castle when he's been at the precinct, and he always expresses amazement. "She must really, really want something from me," he invariably says.

Once he mentioned how much his mother disliked texting and when she asked him why he explained: "She thinks it's one of the final nails in civilization's coffin. She texts only in an emergency, although her definition is entirely different than mine."

She's chuckling at the memory. Castle adores his mother, even though he tries to cover up his exuberant affection. Time to answer that email.

"Dear Martha,

How nice to hear from you, and with such fantastic news. I'm stunned that you recall my sorrow over my late, great Che Bella boots. Now I know from whom Castle"–

She backspaces and continues.

"Now I know from whom your son gets his remarkable memory. You're so kind to think of me, and I'd love to join you on Saturday. If you let me know the address, I'll meet you at the front door shortly before 9:00, ready to deal with those harpies. I only hope that I can live up to my bad-ass reputation.

Thank you,

Katherine"

Martha's response is quick and short.

"Wonderful, darling! 1965 Varick Street, third floor. See you there. In haste (I'm at the theater–it's intermission), M.R."

Eighty blocks north of Beckett's apartment, Sidney Perlmutter's phone rings. He checks the caller ID and nods.

"Hello, Cupid A," he says cheerfully. "I think you may have a report."

"Bingo, Cupid B! Although we're playing chess, not bingo."

"I'd say, 'The game's afoot,' Martha, but that would make things worse."

She laughs softly. "You're right. I'll keep this brief, since it's intermission."

"Are you at _You Snooze, You Lose_?"

"I am. Save your money. It's ghastly. Worst twenty dollars I've ever spent, but at least that's all it was. Anyway," she waves her hand as if he were there. "I made my first move. Immediate success, I'm happy to say. Katherine will meet me on Saturday morning. Oops, there's the bell, I must go."

"Thank you. Good night, Martha."

"Good night, Sidney." He returns to his book, a smile of satisfaction still animating his face.

At 8:30 Saturday morning Kate finds herself uncharacteristically nervous as she drinks a cup of coffee. She has showered and dressed in pants and a cashmere turtleneck that she thinks of as casually elegant, but she shifts uneasily as she questions whether she should she wear jewelry. Martha always does, sometimes enough for three people, though the extravagance in both color and volume suits her. She seldom wears any, in part because of her job, and as she considers putting on a simple gold bracelet she pictures the diamond and ruby necklace that Martha had lent her a few weeks after Castle had started shadowing her. She and Castle had gone undercover at a fancy charity fundraiser and those jewels had transformed her. She's suddenly aware that she's running a fingertip across her collarbone, as if she were tracing a phantom necklace. That's the impetus she needs: she slips a gold bangle onto her wrist and puts on her coat.

She's walking to the sale. It's not far, and she wants the exercise. As she makes her way west she first avoids and then confronts the source of her anxiety about seeing Martha. Correction: she's not anxious about seeing her, she's very fond of her. No, the truth is that she's anxious about her appearance. Why is that? Because to have Martha's approval is to have Castle's? That's unsettling. She shoves it away. Besides, their little expedition is a secret, so it's not as though Castle will know what she'd worn. Martha isn't going to tell him, or take a photo of her at the sale and post it on Facebook. If she even knows what Facebook is, or how to post. Her first thought slithers back and snakes its way around her brain for the last couple of blocks: if Martha thinks that she looks good so, by extension, does her son. Oh, God.

The line outside the building on Varick is still short; she joins it and happily notes that there are only half a dozen people ahead of her. By the time Martha steps out of a taxi, three minutes later, there are at least 30 behind her, many of them grumbling.

"Hi, Martha."

"Hello, sweetheart," she replies, enveloping her in a timeless mist of Miss Dior. It reminds her of her mother, though Johanna Beckett applied a great deal less of the perfume than Martha does.

"Excuse me," the woman behind them says icily. "This is the front of the line."

"Yes, I see that. My friend was holding my place. We're here together."

"No place holding," says someone a little farther back but still within earshot.

"There is when you're on official police business," Martha says in a tone intended to brook no complaints.

Official police business? WTF?

"That's rich," the harpy–Martha was right, they are harpies–behind them says. "You expect us to believe that your friend here is a cop?"

Motivated by some unseen force, she pivots so that she's facing off with her face-lifted accuser, and puts the kind of steel in her voice that she sometimes uses in interrogation. "Detective. First-grade. Happy to show you my badge. My weapon is concealed, but needless to say, I'm licensed for that."

The woman takes a half step backward and doesn't say anything, which is just as well. A moment later, someone unlocks the door and the stampede begins. "You run ahead," Martha urges her. "I'm sure you're the fastest person here. Grab anything you see that I might possibly like. I wear a seven medium."

While others wait for the large-capacity elevator, she tears up the stairs and is the first person in the room, which is filled with rack upon rack of shoes and boots. She takes a basket from a stack inside the door and runs to the section marked 7M, quickly assessing the offerings and choosing six pairs of shoes and one of boots. From there she races to the size 9 area, and pulls down three pairs of boots–two high, one low–and three of shoes. Her basket is full and she carries the excess in her arms.

She turns to scan the room and try to find her companion. Fortunately her red hair is hard to miss, and she makes her way over quickly. "Ta da!" she says triumphantly.

"Oh, my dear," Castle's mother gasps, a pair of bright blue pumps dangling from her left hand. "You're a pro. Let's find a corner and try all these on." She drops her voice. "And you're a hell of an actress, too. Offering to show them your badge."

At 9:45 they're out on Varick Street, each carrying two large bags. "May I buy you a coffee, Katherine? It's the least I can do to repay you for your gathering up so many things for me. I'd have missed most of them. Did you see that creature in the size seven aisle? The one in the shocking pink coat? She'd have dismembered me for those green boots."

"I'm glad I could help, but I'm the one who has to thank you. I'd never have known about this, um–"

"This Olympic event?"

"I thought it was more like cage fighting."

"Well, whatever it was, let's celebrate with coffee, shall we? I think I see a place on the next block, just past the corner."

Because the neighborhood is primarily made up of office buildings, it's pleasantly quiet inside. On a weekday it would be packed. They take a booth by the window; Martha orders a cappuccino, and she asks for a latte and a blueberry muffin.

"I have to say, Martha," she says after her first sip, "you're a lot more fun to shop with than Lanie."

"Than Doctor Parish? Really? She seems like such a lively gal."

"She's lively, but she criticizes me all the time, which is why I usually shop alone. Her standard line is, 'You need to spice up that wardrobe, girl!' Apparently my taste is far too demure."

"Well, we all have our own tastes. Speaking of which," Martha says, nodding towards her plate, "seeing that muffin reminds me of that divine blueberry French toast that you made for us one morning last year, your mother's recipe. It was even better than Richard's, which is no small praise, since he's a gourmet cook."

"A gourmet cook whose favorite breakfast is a bag of Dunkin' Donuts munchkins. Once I watched him eat two dozen–chocolate, glazed, whatever–in one sitting. It wasn't even light yet." She detects, since she is indeed a detective, a very slight change in Martha, one that would be invisible to an eye that hadn't been trained by law enforcement.

"You've eaten breakfast with Richard?"

That wasn't the question she'd expected. She hadn't expected one at all, more likely a funny comment. Not this.

And Martha continues. "Before dawn?"

Oh, shit. "No, not like that. I mean, yes, breakfast. But on a stakeout, or at the precinct."

"Mm hmm."

"All totally aboveboard. I mean, you know, in public."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Those blue eyes of hers, geez. How did Castle ever get away with anything as a kid? They're like lasers or tasers or something. Impossible to lie to or to avoid. "Uh, sorry?"

"I'd be delighted to know that you two had breakfast in bed. Now, don't get flustered. You're very good for him. Since he started working with you he's far more serious and much happier, which sounds like a contradiction but isn't."

Don't get flustered? She needs coffee. Or a tranquilizer. Or a mallet so she could knock herself unconscious.

Unlike her, Martha isn't at all flustered. She sails on like a sloop in calm waters. "He sings your praises all the time, you know."

She's blushing now, undoubtedly a shade of pink that's even brighter than that shopper's coat. "Oh," she says, sounding like a cat choking on a fish bone.

"I don't think he's aware of quite how much he does it."

Thank God, there's Dana. Denise? Donna? Diane? D-fill-in-the-blanks, the waitress. She waves her mug. "May I have another, please?" That was a bad idea. Now she'll have to stay here and drink it instead of getting up right now, saying thank you, and fleeing with $1,400 worth of shoes and boots that she got for $560. She won't be able to buy anything else to wear for the rest of the year, but she doesn't mind.

"Of course," Martha says with the suggestion of a smile, "as a proud mother, I also like to think that he's good for you. Not that I'd ever say that, even if I just did."

TBC

**A/N** Thanks very much again, everyone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

**A/N** I hope that those of you who read the incorrect entry for chapter 3, which was posted very briefly (and was in fact the beginning of an old story "Running on Fumes"), went back and read the correct one, or this chapter will make no sense!

Martha had called him as soon as she had gotten home from shopping with Beckett, and confessed that she hadn't completely followed the game plan. She had gone farther than intended by announcing that she thought that she and her son would be a good couple, and wishes that they were.

"I really was subtle at the beginning," she'd insisted. "I don't know what came over me. The giddiness of getting magnificent Italian shoes for less than my granddaughter pays for sneakers must have affected my judgement."

"Huh," he'd responded. "I don't really understand shopping fever, but I'm trying to put myself in your shoes, so to speak."

"Imagine if you got two on the aisle for _The Book of Mormon_ for ten dollars, Sidney. A show that just opened and is already sold out through next year. Scalpers are getting five hundred a ticket. You'd be pretty giddy."

"Ah, well, I see your point."

"Anyway, fortunately I didn't go on and on about Katherine and Richard, I just said my piece. Briefly. A snippet in a scene."

"How did she react to it? A bit like a deer in the headlights?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, exactly like that. I think it's her big amber eyes and those long legs. She's quite deer-like."

"But she didn't dash out into the concrete forest, did she?"

"Oh, no. I changed the subject to shoes, and which were the best, but before that I patted her on the hand and said something like, 'Pay no attention to me'."

"Which will guarantee that she _will_ pay attention to what you said."

"I should hope so. That's the point of Cupids' Chess."

That all happened yesterday, and the next move on the metaphorical board is his. He had asked Martha if Castle has any kind of weekend routine that he could capitalize on, and she had told him about the Sunday morning one in which he stops at a neighborhood patisserie for croissants and always looks in at Sabine's, a shop right up the street that carries fancy food and high-end kitchen gizmos. Which is why he's currently sitting in a diner diagonally across the way from said shop, drinking a cup of remarkably good tea–he should make a note of this place–and waiting for Castle to show up. At 10:07 a.m. he comes into view and opens the door to Sabine's. Perlmutter takes a final gulp, scurries over to the cashier to pay his bill, and follows his quarry.

Once he's inside he takes up position at the end of the aisle where Martha's son is examining a sleek and undoubtedly wildly expensive corkscrew. He just has to wait for him to look up.

"Castle?" he says in surprise–mock surprise, of course, but he's confident that he sounds and looks convincingly taken aback by seeing the ersatz cop.

"Perlmutter?"

"Good morning."

"Morning."

"This is a coincidence." Anything but, but he knows Castle well enough to exploit the man's love of coincidence.

"It is. You live uptown, don't you? What brings you all the way down here?"

"Lingot de Saint Nicolas. Cheese. I love it. It's very hard to find. Someone said they had it here." He makes a show of turning his head this way and that. "I'm glad I heard about this store. It looks like there may be some good kitchen gadgets in my future."

Castle looks even more surprised than he had a moment ago. "You like to cook?"

"I do. My repertoire is not limited to peanut brittle. I've even taken classes at the CIA. The good one, right up the Hudson, not the one in Washington, full of those bumbling spies."

Astonishment has swamped surprise, and Richard Castle is almost gaping. "You went to the Culinary Institute of America?"

"Certainly did. My favorite class was Exploring Persian Cuisine. They have a new, very different one I'm dying to try, called Everything Chocolate. It's five hours on a Saturday. I thought about doing it yesterday but I was busy." Yesterday, he does not add, though it desperately wants to fly out of his mouth: the day your mother told Beckett that she was sorry that the two of you haven't had breakfast in bed.

"Seriously?"

"Yes, I was on duty yesterday."

"No, I meant there's a class called Everything Chocolate? How did I not know that?"

"Well, you do now, which is all that matters." No, what really matters is that this chess maneuver is proving very promising.

He truly is interested in the corkscrew that Castle is holding, and asks a few questions about it before they turn to the subject of chocolate: the merits and/or deficiencies of various brands and flavors, what percentages of cacao they like and why. He's shocked that they're in agreement on virtually everything, including their belief that classifying white chocolate as chocolate should be ruled a criminal act.

"I'm going to ask Beckett," Castle says. "She'd know how to make that happen."

"If it were left to me," he risks saying, "she'd be running the department." A glance at his watch tells him that they've been chatting for ten minutes.

"I'm taking up your time, Castle. I'm sure you have a lot to do, and I'd better track down that cheese."

"Just my usual Sunday breakfast stuff for my daughter and me, though thanks to you I'm sold on this corkscrew, too." He extends his hand. "Nice talking chocolate with a fellow connoisseur."

"Same here," he says, shaking Castle's hand with pleasure that's completely genuine and a smile that arrived all by itself though he had expected to have to graft it onto his face. Who knew? He starts to leave, but turns back. "Hey, Castle?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't suppose–." His brow is slightly furrowed and he can't quite finish the question.

"I don't suppose," Castle echoes, picking up the unstated thread, "you'd be interested in taking that Everything Chocolate class some Saturday?"

"I would, indeed." And that's the truth.

Castle pulls his phone from his back pocket. "Going to check my calendar." He scrolls through and looks up. "You free weekend after next?"

"Let me see," he replies, retrieving his own phone. "Hmmm, good, yes. I'm not on rotation or on call, so unless there's a sudden attack of the plague I should be free. Shall I sign us up? Since I'm already in their system."

"Sure. Great, thanks." He pauses. "Listen, you wouldn't happen to have your peanut brittle recipe in your phone, would you?"

"No."

"Sorry, probably a trade secret. Don't blame you."

"Not at all. I meant that it's not in my phone because it's in my brain. I can dictate it right now if you like."

"Really? God, yes. I could make it today. I finished that bag you gave me. Unbelievable."

Yes, it is, he agrees silently, mentally adding: and by the way Martha told me that you called it the best thing you'd eaten all year. "Ready?" When Castle nods he rattles off the recipe from memory, and they part company. He makes his way to the cheese, remembering that the Lingot de Saint Nicolas had been an excuse–a sham, really–but now that it's in sight he has a craving for it.

Martha looks up from her paper as her son bursts through the door. "Hello, sweetheart. What's inspired that grin? Did you get free croissants or something?"

"Nope. It's the CIA."

"The CIA? How could that possibly make you this happy?"

"The other one," he says, depositing his bags on the kitchen counter. "In Hyde Park. Culinary Institute of America."

Ahhh, Sidney. She hides her smile behind her coffee mug. "Oh? Did something happen there?"

"It's about to happen there. A class called Everything Chocolate. It's five hours long and you get to bring home what you make."

"Well, that's right up your alley, isn't it? I assume that you intend to enroll?"

"So right, Mother. And you'll never, ever believe who's going with me. Or rather, I'm going with him. He's the one who told me about it. Turns out he's a fellow chocoholic."

"You'll have to put me out of my misery. I couldn't possibly guess." Because I don't have to, she crows silently.

"Perlmutter."

"Of autopsies and peanut brittle?" She adds a flutter of one hand for dramatic emphasis.

"The very one. I bumped into him just now, in Sabine's. He was trying to find a fancy cheese and they had it there, so he came all the way down from Eighty-Third Street for it. Oh, and another thing. He gave me his peanut brittle recipe, isn't that fantastic? I have to say, I'm really revising my opinion of him. Beckett was right. He's got a very good side. And he's interesting."

A chorus of angels is singing inside her head. _Beckett was right, tra la la la la, la la la la_. "I hope you'll tell her, Richard."

She's about to say something else but her phone rings. Cupid B. "Hello, Fran," she says, airily.

"Fran? Oh, your son is there."

"That's right."

"I like your choice of name, could be Frances with an e or Francis with an i. Female or male. Very clever, Martha."

"Thank you. Richard has just come in with our traditional Sunday morning goodies. Might I call you in about an hour, dear?"

"I knew I should have waited. My apologies."

"No apologies necessary. I'll speak with you in a bit."

"I'll give you an update."

"And I will, too. Bye!"

Later, in the privacy of her room, she returns the doctor's call and they happily exchange notes. "Let's see what happens tomorrow," she says. "If you see Richard and Katherine, let me know asap."

"I doubt I'll see them unless someone gets murdered."

"Well, I don't wish death on anyone. Except occasionally, like my homicidal thoughts about Joy Connors after she stole that man away from me in nineteen eighty-three, but the feeling always passes."

"If that appalling excuse for an actress ends up in the morgue, believe me, I'll call you."

"I bet the cause would be death by critics."

"Sounds right." They both cackle, and say goodbye.

The next morning Castle walks into the precinct with two coffees and a small shopping bag. "Morning, Beckett," he says to his partner as he hands her a paper cup. "Where are the guys?"

"Thank you," she says. "Ryan and Espo? Interviewing the sister-in-law of the vic."

"You finally found her?"

"Yup. Living in an RV park in Staten Island under the imaginative name of Winnie Baygo." She pauses to take her first sip of coffee, which is invariably one of his favorite sights of a day. She always shuts her eyes, makes an almost filthy, almost inaudible sound that only he hears, and only when he's very close by. And then she shivers. It takes all his self-control not to lean over and kiss her. He'd love to record it on his phone, but he's never figured out how to do it without her knowing it. Fortunately by now it's pretty much burned into his hippocampus and amygdala and he can–and does–replay it at will. But only when he's alone.

"This case is killing me," she says, opening her eyes. "I've been here since six, going over and over and over the same stuff. Getting nowhere. Want to look at the board again with me?"

"I always want to look at the board again with you, Beckett."

She pretends to glower at him as she pushes her chair away from her desk and stands up. Sweet mother of God, she's wearing a skirt. A black wool skirt that would be ordinary office attire for most women, but she is not most women. It's not just the skirt, which ends an inch of two above her knees, it's the boots. They're purple and so satiny they look as if they're made from unborn calf. And perfect heels that make her six feet tall. It's like sex on stilts; he has to steady himself by holding on to the back of his chair. He's grateful–for many reasons–that she's in front of him and can't see her affect on him.

"Nice boots," he blurts, but at least it keeps him from drooling.

She turns sharply. "What?"

"Nice boots. New? Right?" What's he thinking is that "nice" isn't the right word. If she chases some perp down the street in those the minute the guy sees her he'll stop to gawp and she'll cuff him.

"Oh. Yes. Thanks."

"Gorgeous."

"Hmm?"

"The boots. Gorgeous."

"On sale. Could never have afforded them otherwise."

He could, though. He wouldn't care what they cost. He'd buy her every pair they make, whoever they are. She looks uncomfortable and he wonders why.

It's hard to concentrate on the board, but there's no need: there's nothing new. They're stuck, and they go back to her desk.

"Maybe Winnie Baygo will send us in a better direction," he says. "I kind of want to meet her, if only to congratulate her on the name."

"Maybe she will. I don't know. But we have to wait until the boys get back."

"Hey, how about some brain food?" He picks up the small bag that he'd brought from home. "Perlmutter's peanut brittle."

"You still have some? Did your mother put a muzzle on you this weekend or something? I can't believe you didn't eat all of it."

"I did eat all of it. I made this batch last night."

"Thought you said it was Perlmutter's."

"His recipe, Beckett, his recipe."

"How the hell did you get that?" she asks over the plastic lid of her cup. "Break into his apartment?"

"No B and E necessary. He gave it to me." He lifts a plastic box from the bag, takes the top off and offers it to her. "Here, try a piece."

"Oh, my God," she says after she's eaten it. "I'm in love."

"You did tell me you liked Perlmutter."

"I do. I think all the crabbiness is an act. Take him away from a crime scene and the morgue and he's an interesting guy. And he can be really nice."

"I know."

"You do?" Her eyebrows rise halfway to her hairline.

"You were right. I bumped into him yesterday and we got talking. Did you know he likes to cook?"

"I know he makes to-die-for pirozhki. One time ages ago he heard me speaking to a vic's mother in Russian and asked how I knew it. I told him I'd been a student in Kiev. A couple of weeks later I had a hell of a cold and the next thing I knew he'd left me a container of pirozhki downstairs with the Sarge."

"Well, he does. We're going to take a chocolate-making class together at the Culinary Institute."

She smiles. "That must have been some conversation you had, Castle. It's nice that you two guys found you have something in common."

"Other things, too."

"Yeah? What?"

You, he wants to say but hasn't the nerve. We're both your fans, but the difference is I'm in love with you. What he says instead is, "Ah, that's a subject for another day. Have some more peanut brittle."

At home that night, she goes over–again and again–what Castle had said about Perlmutter. Castle is not the same guy he was a couple of years ago, the smart-ass 30-something adolescent who drove her crazy every day. Until he didn't anymore. Had she changed, or had he? He had, no doubt about it. The old Castle was totally dismissive of Perlmutter and yet here they are becoming friends.

But she must have changed too, mustn't she? She gets into bed and turns out the light. Castle and Perlmutter have come to like each other, improbable as it seems. And so has she. Come to like Castle, that is. She squeezes her eyes shut. The difference is, she's also come to understand that she doesn't just like Castle, she loves him. And that is a subject for another day. Another year. Maybe another decade. It's too scary to think about right now.

TBC

**A/N** As always, thanks to everyone, but especially to Hawkie, who said in her review, "I hope that Castle notices Beckett's new gorgeous boots in the next chapter!" I wouldn't have thought of that, and I was very glad to make use of it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

She's trying not to notice things, except that she's trained to notice things. Just because Castle isn't a criminal doesn't mean she doesn't notice things about him. A lot of things. She just needs not to be obvious about it. For now, anyway. Until she can tell him. Maybe.

For instance, at some point–she doesn't know when–around 9:00 on weekday mornings she began to look up every time she heard the elevator ding. At first it must have been because she was jonesing for the coffee that Castle always brought. She's never asked him where he buys it, and there's no logo on the paper cup, but she's never tasted anything as good, including what the break room espresso maker produces. Why hasn't she asked him? She could buy it there for herself when he's not around. Is it because then it wouldn't be such a treat when he hands her a cup?

Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Castle is a great cook and a sensational maker of coffee, as she knows from her stay in his loft last year when she was temporarily homeless. Not to mention furnitureless, bookless, clothesless, and apparently clueless. She has a powerful memory of how things taste, but it's only now, a year later, that she connects the dots. The coffee that Castle brings to her at the precinct, or at a crime scene, is exactly the same coffee that he served her on Broome Street. Ergo: the coffee that he brings her here is not from some fancy little cafe but his fancy big kitchen. What does that say about him? What does that say about her? A lot, that's what. Beginning with how sweet and generous he can be.

Recently she's become aware that trying to watch the elevator door opening without letting Castle see her do it is a tricky move. She doesn't want to appear, what, too eager? She's plenty eager for the coffee, but she has become–this is part of her new self-examination regimen, painful as it is–just as eager, even more eager, to see him. There. There it is: she has admitted it to herself. She can't wait to see him. Through very cautious observation she has noted that Castle almost always ducks his head when gets off the elevator, not as if he's avoiding, say, a rubber band projectile from Espo, but as if he's either arranging his face or trying not to look her in the eye. And why is that? Is it because he's equally eager to see her but doesn't want to give himself away? Whoa! He looks adorable when he ducks his head, like a shy kid on the first day of school. And as for that mesmerizing little scar on his forehead: she wants to jump up and kiss it better.

This morning, trying not to envision the arrival of Castle and his coffee, she's mulling over something else: his hair. He has fantastic hair, and it's always perfect. But that's not precisely what's on her mind. What she's trying to picture is what his hair is like without product. It must be soft. His hands are incredibly soft. No thinking about hands. Back to hair. What does his hair look like when he gets out of the shower? No, no, mind, don't go there, either. What might it look like in bed? Women aren't the only ones with sex hair. Holy–

The elevator ding interrupts her fantasy. She intentionally shoves a file onto the floor so that she has to lean over and pick it up, and isn't looking his way. If, in fact, he's the one who's getting off the elevator and coming her way. He is. Before she sits up in her chair again, before she sees him, she smells the coffee and she smells him, his soap and shaving cream and whatever else is making her tingle.

"Hey, Castle," she says, putting the file back on her desk but directing her greeting to his Adam's apple.

"Hey, Beckett."

"I've been dying for this coffee. Thank you." She does something that she's never done before: snaps off the snug-fitting top and inhales deeply. "Mmmm." Then she takes a swallow. "Double mmmm. Maybe it's because I didn't get enough sleep last night, but this is even better than usual." She takes another sip and smiles at him, this time looking directly into his eyes. "You know, you've been giving me this for ages, and I've never asked where it's from. I've worked at the Twelfth for years, but I've never found any coffee around here that's in the same league as this. Do you get in your neighborhood or something?"

His eyes change slightly, but not so slightly that she doesn't register the change, which appears to be something like panic. Who panics over coffee? Coffee deprivation, maybe, but this? Is it because she's hit the bull's eye?

"Um, yeah." She hears his feet scrape lightly on the floor under his chair. "My neighborhood."

"Am I going to have to go looking for it? When you go off to the Hamptons for the whole summer it would be nice if I could have some of this." She tips her cup at him. He looks so uncomfortable, and she's enjoying it.

"It's a secret," he says.

"A secret? I thought Perlmutter's peanut brittle recipe was a secret, but he gave it to you."

"This is different." His feet are still shuffling.

"It is?"

"Yeah. It's, uh. I know a guy."

"Ooooohhhh, I see. This is an I-know-a-guy situation." I know the guy, too, she thinks. He's sitting two feet away from me. "Guess I'll never find out, then. What is he, some under-the-radar guy who gets spectacular contraband coffee from Cuba or something?"

"Something like that."

She smiles and lets him off the hook. Besides, she's swamped with love that he does this for her, the trouble that he's been going to all this time. "Okay. Hey, listen. Big news on Winnie Baygo."

"What?"

"She confessed. Burst open like an overripe tomato when Ryan and Espo put her in interrogation, about an hour and a half ago."

"Oh, fill me in." Eyes sparkling, he scoots his chair as far forward as it will go. "Juicy details. Juicy as an overripe tomato. Family feud?"

"You could say. Apparently Winnie was very ticked off with the vic when she found out he was cheating on her sister, who was his wife."

"Guess she and her sister were close."

"Yes, it wasn't so much that he was cheating on her sister, but with whom."

"I'd try to guess who the whom is, but I don't want to waste time. Just tell me."

"Her own husband. Winnie's husband."

"You're telling me that the vic and Winnie's husband–the two brothers-in-law–were having an affair?"

"Bingo."

"Well, that'll be the talk of the Staten Island RV park."

"I guess it will." She taps her hand on the short stack of folders on her desk. "Paperwork. You gonna stick around for a change?"

He sighs a sigh that she doesn't believe. "Okay. This once."

"To what do I owe this charitable act, Castle?"

"To your not torturing me to give you the name of the Cuban coffee guy."

"I know it's not Juan Valdez, at least, because Juan is Colombian."

"That's right, and I'm still not telling."

"Si, Señor Castle, she thinks, as she flips open a file.

The next body drop is on Friday morning, but she doesn't call Castle because he's already en route to a literary festival in Miami and won't be back until Sunday night. When she gets to the scene, a small but stunning apartment that's a fourth-floor walk-up, Perlmutter is already there. The smell is sickening.

"Oh, my God," she says to the M.E., who is bending over the body of a middle-aged woman dressed in business attire: skirt, blouse, tailored jacket. She's still wearing her shoes.

"Indeed. I have a bottle of lavender oil in the top of my bag, on the floor to the left of me. Help yourself."

"Thank you," she says, dabbing a few drops on the skin just below her nostrils. "How long do you think Ms. Colman has been here?"

"Probably two days."

"And no one noticed the smell?"

"The other apartment on this floor is empty, about to be renovated, apparently. The next floor down is just one big place and the owners are away."

"Huh. Still."

"I agree."

"No murder weapon, I gather."

"Not yet. But I'd say a strong, very sharp knife. One deep thrust to the kidneys." He looks up at her. "I'm sorry, Detective," he says so quietly that she is the only one there who can hear. "I know this must be painful for you."

He's right, and it's thoughtful of him to say so. "Thanks, Perlmutter."

The doctor straightens up. "Where's your sidekick today?"

"Castle? Miami. Literary festival."

"Right, I forgot."

"You two are on the road to being buddies, I hear."

"Well, quite by chance we discovered a mutual interest in chocolate."

"Interest? With Castle it's more like obsession. Anyway, he told me that you're going to take a class together–. Uh, here comes Esposito. Don't think Castle wants him to know about, you know."

"Got it. Can't be ruining our reputations."

Late that afternoon, Perlmutter texts her to say that he has some information if she wants to stop by the morgue before he leaves for the day. It's almost 6:00 by the time she comes through the door.

"Hi," she says. "Whatcha got for me?"

"It's not a lot, but it's of interest," he says. "When I did a careful examination of the wound, I found a few tiny flecks of rust."

"Rust?"

"Rust. My assumption is that the blade is not stainless steel, as we usually find, but high carbon. Stainless steel is capable of rusting, but it's not common. High carbon rusts easily, but more important–"

"It holds an edge better?"

"Not only that, but you can make that edge extremely sharp. I think the killer was counting on that. Maybe he or she had very little time? At any rate, the person almost certainly had a decent knowledge of anatomy, to deliver death in one blow."

"Sounds premeditated."

"That's your bailiwick, but yes, it does."

"Thanks, Perlmutter." She's about to say goodnight when she decides to take a moment. "May I ask you something?"

"Anytime. I can't guarantee that I'll have an answer, though."

"I think you will this time. You didn't suggest that I stop by here just for this, did you? You could have called me with it."

He glances at the floor and then returns her gaze. "You're right. There's something I wanted to say at the scene, but not with others around."

"Okay."

"I could scarcely say that I know Castle, but I've become far better acquainted with him in recent days than I ever could have imagined."

She laughs. "Same goes for him. And me. I never thought the two of you would have, oh–"

This time he finishes the sentence: "a civilized conversation?"

"Close enough."

"To return to your question, and my answer. You and I have had a number of civilized and very interesting conversations over the years."

She nods. Where is he going with this?

"You impressed me from the first time I encountered you, at the Academy, in my forensics lecture."

"You remember me?"

"You were an unforgettable student. More important, you are the best detective I've ever worked with."

"Wow. I don't know what to say. Thank you."

"But again, that's not why I wanted to speak with you. I hope you won't think that I'm crossing a line here."

Crossing a line? Uh, oh. Her previously silent antennae begin to quiver. She's not going to comment until he says his piece, whatever it is.

"When I was in med school I considered becoming a psychiatrist, and though I happily abandoned that path, I maintain a great interest in human nature. And one of the things that has become apparent to me is that, superb detective that you have always been, you're even better when you're working with Castle. He used to drive me–forgive the lack of medical precision–nuts."

She can't hold her tongue on this one. "You weren't alone. I'd have happily killed him on numerous occasions except I wouldn't have gotten away with it. Besides, I really like Martha."

"Martha?"

His reaction is strange. He didn't say "Martha?" as if he didn't know who she was talking about, but as if he were startled by the mention of her name. Huh. "Martha Rodgers. Castle's mother."

"Oh, yes. Of course."

She sees him swallows hard, which sets her antennae trembling again. He hadn't seemed at all nervous until she mentioned Martha. Double huh.

"The thing is, Beckett, it's not often that I–or anyone–has the chance to observe two people bring out the best in one another. It's like Deductive Olympics with you two. And now that I know Castle a bit, I feel remiss in not having complimented him from time to time, when he has made some important observations, or asked a question that pushed me to look harder at something."

She wishes that she'd taped this. Castle would swoon if he heard it. "That's really nice, Perlmutter. I hope you tell him sometime. Just enough not to swell his head so much that he has to get bigger hats."

"Does he even have a hat? I don't think I've ever seen him wear one, even outdoors in the snow. But I take your point."

She has a feeling that he hasn't said all he'd planned to, and she gives him a nudge. "That wasn't the line that you were worried about crossing, was it? I'm flattered by what you said. I'm sure that Castle would be, too."

He's silent for what seems like a long time. There's nowhere to look in this sterile room. He opens his mouth, and closes it. And then he locks his eyes on her and speaks again. "I've been approaching it carefully. But my foot, both feet, are going over it now. I hope you won't take offense."

He inhales deeply, and she exhales.

"I probably strike most people as someone who seldom laughs. Until very recently, I thought almost the same of you, though not for the same reasons. I thought, here's an exceptionally intelligent woman doing something she seems to have been born to do. She's a serious person. I admire that. But I also saw that the underpinning of the seriousness was melancholy. You and I have spoken briefly about your mother's case, and I understand the melancholy, but also regret it. But lately I haven't seen it at all. And from my own deductive reasoning I've decided that it's Castle who's responsible for that. I think he makes you happy, and I don't even know if you're aware of it. But it does my heart good to see it."

He runs his hand across the back of his neck. "There. I've said it. If you want to tell me I have some chutzpah, and storm out of here, I wouldn't blame you."

She's so gobsmacked that she has no idea what to say.

TBC

**A/N** Thanks to everyone who's reading this matchmaking story. Have a good weekend.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show./

On the dreaded if remote chance that he and Martha might bump into Castle or Beckett, Perlmutter has chosen an Indian restaurant near the United Nations for dinner. He's been waiting inside by the window for only a few minutes when he sees Martha get out of a cab at the corner and look every direction before she crosses the street, opens the door, and steps in.

"Good evening, Martha."

"Judging from your expression, Sidney, I think it must be a very good evening. Did things go well?"

"Why don't we sit down and order a celebratory drink so I can tell you all about it."

"Celebratory drinks! Aha. Another clue."

Over wine and a shared plate of pakoras, he fills her in on his conversation with Beckett, just as she had done for him after the shoe shopping extravaganza.

"Like you, I was a little bolder than I had intended to be. Why do you suppose that is?"

"I think that we've both got caught up in the game, don't you? Ordinary chess may be for cool heads, but Cupids' Chess is a little different, isn't it?"

"Yes. I dare say we do a little more improvising than Garry Kasparov. Not that he's not adaptable, God knows, but I think he plots a game very differently than we two do."

"Well," she says airily, "I don't know much about chess, but whenever I see it on television everyone looks so grim, as if they want to feed their opponents to some ravenous beast. They definitely don't seem to be having fun."

"Unlike us," he says, lifting his glass.

"Unlike us," she agrees, and taps her glass against his. "All right, you've reached the tantalizing denouement, and I'm dying to know what Katherine did after you told her that Richard made her happy, even though she may not know it."

"She seemed to be glued to the spot for ages." He's pleased with the memory of it. "It made me think that we were playing that children's game, Statues, and I'd said, 'Look as if you see a train rushing at you, but can't move.' It was fascinating, because her body stayed completely still, but her expression changed. I felt as if I were watching her face, just her face, in slow motion. Initially she looked panicked: 'How in the hell can I get out of here if my feet are stuck to these railroad tracks?' The first thing to change was her eyes. She blinked, and when her eyes opened again it was as if the lids had polished the surface. They were brighter, somehow, and gradually more and more light came into them, until they were gleaming. And then her nose twitched. It was such a tiny movement that I thought I might have imagined it, but it had, because it made her upper lip react. It pulled it up a fraction, so there was a suggestion of a smile, or the beginning of it. And then that radiated outwards, both ways, until it was so broad that her lips parted and there it was, a full-blown, luminous smile. And she looked at me and said, 'He does?' "

"Oh," Martha says. "Oh."

"Her cheeks turned pink and I nodded. And then she looked bashful, like a little girl. She turned her head away from me, and then back. The rest of her still hadn't moved. It was astonishing. She held my glance for a long time, and then she said, 'He _does_.' Emphasis on does. And then she bit her lip and said. 'Um, good night.' So I wished her good night and she left."

"And that was that?"

"Not quite."

"I thought I sensed a dramatic pause."

"You did. She walked to the door and was actually halfway through it when she turned back. She was gripping that doorknob as if it were the only thing keeping her upright, and she said, 'He really does. He does make me happy. He really does. So happy. Thank you.' And then, I kid you not, she leapt into the hallway. It's the only time in my life that I've seen someone truly jump for joy. Because that's what it was, and I could hear her footsteps afterwards. She was running."

Martha claps her hands. "Oh, this is magnificent, isn't it?"

"It is. I'm very hopeful. And hungry." He pats his stomach. "Playing Cupid definitely makes me hungry."

"And thirsty. Where is that darling waiter? We need more wine."

"And chicken tikka masala." He gasps. "Do you know what I just realized?"

"Whatever it is, I hope it's good."

"Better than good. I just remembered where the game of chess started. Originated."

"You'll have to enlighten me, I'm afraid."

"India."

It's her turn to gasp. "That's perfection. Perfection. And here we are, practically in the Taj Mahal. You know, Sidney, I have the feeling one of our pawns may be about to make a move."

"I do, too. I hope we're right."

Kate Beckett's hand is trembling slightly. All of her is trembling slightly, so she sits down on a bench outside a bar that she's passing. She stares at the screen of her phone and finally taps on the messages icon.

"Hey, Castle," she types. "Are you home? I just went for a run and out of the blue had a craving urge for Caffe Roma. Haven't been in ages. Want to join me?"

She hits send, which makes her hand tremble even more, and when the phone beeps in her hand only seconds later she flinches.

"Si," Castle's text begins. "That's Italian for yes. I can be there in five minutes. Four. I have a lot of incentive. Those cannoli."

Oh, shit, she hadn't thought this through. He wants to meet her now. She hasn't been for a run at all. She's still in her work clothes. "Give me half an hour so I can change. I'm all sweaty."

Sender's remorse immediately descends. She told him she was sweaty. It was like giving catnip to a kitten. Yup, here he is again.

"I'd be ecstatic to see you all sweaty, Beckett. Don't change on my account."

"I'm almost home," she types. Fortunately, that part is true. "Going to shower. See you in 30 minutes." She drops the phone into her bag and runs the two blocks home.

In her apartment she takes the fastest shower of her life and changes into jeans and a sweater. She has no time for makeup, and puts her hair in a pony tail. What the hell. It's not what she looks like that matters at the moment, it's what she has to say, before she loses her nerve. What nerve she has, since her nerves are frayed. Out in the street she waves down a cab. "Corner of Mulberry and Broome, please," she says, sliding across the back seat. Is she crazy? Maybe. Probably. They're almost there.

Oh, God, there he is, standing outside, waiting for her outside, even though it has begun to drizzle. "Thank you," she says to the driver, putting a $10 bill in the plastic cup for the $7.20 fare. "Keep the change."

"Good choice, Beckett," Castle says as she approaches. "I haven't been here in ages, either." He holds the door open for her and they duck inside just as the rain really begins to come down.

"Define ages," she says over her shoulder.

"Not sure. Four or five weeks?"

"I guess for you that qualifies as ages."

"Yeah. Now if you said eons? That would be two months."

It's late, a little after ten on a work-and-school night, and about half the tables are free. Castle points to a small one by the window. "You must be tired after your run. You sit down and I'll go check out the pastry cases. You want coffee?"

She rolls her eyes.

"Sorry, stupid question."

Maybe she should have something that doesn't add to her jumpiness. "Hey, Castle?"

He's only a few steps away, and pivots. "Yeah?"

"Forget the coffee. Make it a hot chocolate. With whipped cream."

He comes back shortly and says he's placed the order. "Hot chocolate, huh? You sure? This place has legendary cappuccino."

"I know. Their coffee and I are old friends. I just felt like something different. For a change, you know." In case things are about to change.

"Uh huh. Anyway, I didn't know what you wanted to eat, so I got everything."

"Everything?"

"Almost."

He wasn't exaggerating–he seldom does when it came to dessert. The waiter has a tray filled with five, no six, kinds of cookies, cannoli, tiramisu, cheesecake, and gelato. "I'll be right be back with your drinks," he says, somehow managing to squeeze all the sweets onto their table.

"Hope you're hungry. You should be if you just ran, right?"

"Right." Run? She's almost ready to run out of here. She picks up a biscotto that has been half-dipped in dark chocolate, and points it at Castle. "Think you'll learn to make this in your class with Perlmutter?"

"Nah. Not enough chocolate on that. The things we're going to make are seriously, seriously chocolate. Speaking of which, here's your drink."

She all but grabs it from his hand and takes a deep gulp, followed by another. It's what she needed, she knows. When she puts it down she looks across the table at him. He has a smile that she hasn't seen on him before. "What?"

"You."

"Me? What about me?"

He takes her by surprise by leaning towards her and swiping the tip of his finger over her nose. "Whipped cream. On your nose. You look adorable."

The remark leaves her even more flustered than the act. "I, I haven't been adorable since I was about five."

"Oh, you're not seeing what I'm seeing." He smiles that smile again and her insides instantly feel a little like whipped cream. Or her heart. Her heart feels like whipped cream.

"Have something to eat," she says, waving her hand across the plates. "There's enough stuff here for twenty people."

"Two, anyway," he answers, taking a large spoonful of tiramisu. "Mmm. I'm so happy you thought of this."

She watches him finish the cake, and move on to a sesame cookie. "This really does make you happy, doesn't it?"

"Of course."

"A lot of things make you happy."

He pauses, cookie halfway to his mouth. "Yeah. I guess so. I mean, yes. They do. I'm a happy guy."

"That's good."s

"Everything okay, Beckett?"

"Yes."

He looks at her, steadily. "You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"In that case," he says, smiling again and breaking a cookie in two, "I'm going to help myself to some more happiness."

She must have been staring, and she must have been doing it for some time, because she's suddenly aware of Castle saying, "Beckett? Kate?"

"Oh, sorry. I was just thinking."

"I'm not so sure you're okay."

"No, I am. Really." She peers into her almost empty glass. "I was talking to Perlmutter before. "

"Before what?"

"Before now. I mean after, after work. He called me about the Colman case and I stopped by. The morgue. I stopped by there."

She eyes wander down to some sesame seeds that dropped onto the plate, and she pushes some around with her finger.

"Oh. Did he have some news? A break?"

"Not really. A little, but it was something else that got me thinking. Made me think."

"You've got my full attention. Think about what?"

"Happiness."

"Happiness? What about it?"

"That you're a really happy person."

"Not exactly a secret."

"That's true, but I never really thought about it before. Not in the right way. Perlmutter was the one who pointed me in the right direction."

He rubs his hands over his eyes, and down his cheeks. "Either someone spiked my coffee or my IQ just dipped about fifty points because I don't know what you're talking about. And before you explain–you are going to explain, aren't you?"

"I'll try. Sorry."

"Just so I know that my vision isn't impaired along with my brain, you're not wearing any makeup, are you?"

Where had that come from? "No. Sorry. I didn't have time after I showered and changed. I didn't want to be late."

"You look about eighteen is all. I've never seen you without makeup. And before you apologize again, you can add that to the list of things that make me happy." He folds his hands on top of the table and squares his shoulders. "So. Perlmutter? Perlmutter pointed you in what direction?"

"Yours."

"Mine?"

"He reminded me that when he first knew me I was very serious."

"Serious about your job, for sure."

"Serious, period. And that I wasn't happy back then. But that I am now. He said I probably didn't know it."/

"That you're happy?"

She tries to arrange the sesame seeds into some kind of pattern. It doesn't work. Just say it, she tells herself, just say it. "Not just that I'm happy, but why. It's you, Castle. You make me happy. And now that I know that, I think you should, too."

TBC

**A/N** Thank you for reading, everyone. For those in Florida and Georgia or elsewhere in the path of Hurricane Dorian, I hope that you will be safe.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

Maybe someone really had spiked his coffee, because he could swear that Beckett just said that he made her happy. Not only that, but she said it in a public place where someone else, several someone elses, could have heard her clearly. Granted, to someone else, anyone else, "you make me happy" might seem sweetly benign, rather than being the four most life-altering words of all time. In fact, this whole evening has been off-kilter. First, she asked him on a date. Okay, not exactly a date, but she texted and asked if he'd like to join her at Caffe Roma, which could be easily be construed as a date. Second, she didn't order coffee, which is unheard of, especially in a place renowned for it. Third, well, third, which is actually first–first as in best, the absolute best–she just said what she said. About him. And her.

"Castle?" She looks anxious, and sounds more so.

"Hmm?"

"Um, did you?" She lets the incomplete question hang there.

Did he what? Oh, did he hear her? Maybe that's what she was going to ask. He's still in a daze. "Why did you order hot chocolate?" Hey! That's not what he should have said, but apparently his brain hasn't completely grasped "you make me happy," and is trying to make sense of her choice of drink.

"What?"

So now she looks both anxious and confused, and it's his fault. "You always get coffee."

"Oh."

And now she looks crestfallen. Suddenly he knows, as if he's just received some divine revelation, what to do. He picks up his untouched glass of ice water and pours it over his head.

"Castle! What the hell are you doing?"

He shakes his wet head, which sends drops of water flying across the table onto her. He yanks a handful of paper napkins out of the dispenser and thrusts them at her. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Here. Dry off. Please. I'm sorry." He had draped his jacket over the back of the chair when they sat down, and now he retrieves it, and rubs it vigorously over his face and hair.

Beckett is agape.

"Did you say that I make you happy?"

"Yes."

"I thought you did, but I couldn't believe it. That's why I dumped the cold water over me. It was –. Everything this evening has been so unexpected. Did you mean it? You meant it, right? I make you happy?"

She nods.

"Could you tell me again?"

"You make me happy, Castle."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Hang on. Don't move. I mean, it's okay if you move, but don't leave." He takes the two plates of goodies and race-walks to the cashier.

"Could you put these in a bag, please?" he asks the young woman behind the glass-fronted cases.

"Don't you want a box? Some of these won't do well in a bag."

"Fine. Whatever's good. That's good. Thanks."

She boxes them up and gives him a dubious look as she passes him a shopping bag. He hands her a $50 bill.

"You already paid, sir."

"That's for you. I just found out that I make someone happy."

"Oh. Well, thanks. You made me happy, too."

He covers the space between the cashier and Beckett in three strides. "C'mon," he says. "C'mon." As soon as she's on her feet he takes her hand and walks them out the door. "You're not busy are you?" he asks as they turn left.

"Busy?"

"Yeah. I mean you don't have to be somewhere or anything?"

"Castle, it's almost eleven."

"Yeah, but it's Thursday night, you might be, you know, going out. Getting a jump on the weekend."

"I am out."

She is out? Does that mean she's out with him? Like on a date? "Good. Because I want to finish our conversation. I want to know how I made you happy."

"Where are we going?"

"My house. Is that okay?"

"Sure."

He doesn't say another word during the short walk west on Broome. He's too occupied with being happy, and reveling in her letting him hold her hand. When they come through the front door of the loft he flicks on the lights in the entryway and kitchen and hangs up their jackets, his still damp. "Would you like some coffee? Or another hot chocolate?"

Finally, she looks relaxed. "Coffee, please."

"That's more like it. Not that I have anything against hot chocolate. I love hot chocolate. I love that you drink hot chocolate, but you have me all topsy-turvy tonight."

While the coffee is brewing he puts the pastries on a tray and sets it down on the kitchen island where Beckett has propped up her elbows. "Would you like a snack?"

She runs her eyes over the offerings and looks up, her face a blank. "Do you have one?"

Which cracks him up. He's still laughing when he pours the coffee into two mugs and adds them to the tray. "Let's go to the living room. It's more comfortable in there."

As soon as they're settled on the sofa he asks, "Do you have any idea what it means to me to learn that I make you happy?"

"Maybe. A little."

"Not a little. A lot. Not a lot. More than a lot. It makes me unquantifiably happy."

"I'm glad."

Her voice is so soft. Her eyes are so soft. Her expression is so soft. He's desperate to touch her face, and her hair, but he doesn't want to spook her, and before anything else he needs to know how they got here, to this utterly unexpected and wonderful place.

"How did it happen?"

"It didn't happen. I mean, not like a book falling off a shelf or a traffic light changing. You used to drive me crazy, you know."

"I guess I was kind of a pain in the ass."

"Kind of? You were a big pain in the ass. And so cocky and sure of yourself."

"Not as much as I pretended to be, I think."

"Sure seemed like it. But this was gradual, you know. You sneaked up on me, so quietly–"

"First time anyone has called me quiet."

"You weren't quiet, it was what you did that was quiet, or small-scale but with a big impact. Like knowing exactly how I like my coffee and bringing it to me every day. Like getting me the dress that I never could have afforded, the one for the charity thing we had to go to, but putting that note on it. I realized afterwards you did it to make me less nervous."

"Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo."

"Yeah. 'Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo.' You think so out of the box, sometimes you're completely wacko and sometimes you're brilliant, but you really came to understand how cops work, and stopped making things hard for me. You apologize for overstepping bounds, and you mean it. Somehow you know when it's good to make me laugh, when I need to laugh, and when I don't. You make me laugh more than anyone I've ever met. And when I see you with your daughter and your mother? It makes me want to sing." She stops and turns halfway round to look at the stairs in the background. "Speaking of Alexis and Martha, where are they?"

"There are teachers' meetings tomorrow, so Alexis has no school. She's gone to a Sweet Sixteen Destination Party, if you can believe it. The destination being a place in the Hudson Valley with ice skating and apparently a hunky ice dancing instructor. And my mother has a dinner date, so who knows what that means."

She smiles at that. "I'm going to keep going on this, Castle, while I can. You used to push me so hard, and now you don't, unless you feel–and you're almost always right–that I need pushing. You give me the space I need, and the air. That may sound serious, and it is, but it's part of what makes me happy. I think the most important thing is that you make me see the good in things that I'd forgotten about for a long time. And fun. And silliness. The importance of fun and silliness."

She looks down at her lap, which is always a sign that she's embarrassed. "I don't know if that makes sense."

"It does." He wants to reassure her. "It does. But you know, happiness doesn't always have to make sense. It just is." He's clutching the arm of the sofa to keep himself from flying off it.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you until now. But I couldn't, because I really didn't admit it to myself until now. Until Perlmutter."

"Perlmutter." He releases his death grip on the sofa, and chuckles. "I thought it was a big deal when he told me that the CIA has a chocolate-making class for us mere civilians. But this? This is huge, and I need to do something huge for him. A round-the-world, first-class plane ticket or something."

"Well, at some point I think you could just tell him thank you."

"Thank him? I could kiss him." He takes her hand from the spot where it's resting between them, squeezes it, and lets go. "Beckett?" he asks hopefully.

"Mm hmm?"

He leans forward until he's just a few inches away from her. "I'd so much rather kiss you. May I kiss you?"

This time she doesn't smile, she beams. In the low light, her eyes look gold. "Can you kiss me?"

"Oh, I know I can kiss you. I'm very, very capable of kissing you. You are the most kissable woman I've ever seen. No, I want to know if I may kiss you. If I have your permission to kiss you."

"Jesus, Castle, I thought you'd never ask."

Her shyness evaporates as quickly as his tentativeness, and she kisses him with as little restraint–which is to say, none–as he kisses her. It is, ultimately, the kiss of a lifetime. His lifetime, anyway. And, he hopes, hers. They're both so short of breath, their pulses so rapid, that under any other circumstances they'd be in an emergency room.

His cheek is against her neck, which is every bit as soft as he'd imagined. "I have to call the International Olympic Committee or the Guinness Records people," he says. "That was the best kiss ever. Ever. What outranks gold? Platinum. It was a platinum kiss." He pulls back just enough that he can look into her eyes. "You blow me away, Beckett."

That prompts a look he has never seen before. She purses her lips, and he's mesmerized by the sight of her tongue appearing at the corner of her mouth and then sliding back in. She raises her eyebrows and looks slowly down his body before she says, "There was no blowing involved, Castle."

"Oh, my God, I didn't think this could get better, and now you talk dirty."

"You ain't heard nothing," she says. "As for blowing, that's a second date thing."

He's almost choking now. "Second date thing?"

"This is our first date, isn't it?"

"Is it a date?"

"I asked if you wanted to come to Caffe Roma with me. Doesn't that sound like a date?"

"Oh, definitely. Yes, a date."

"And you invited me back here."

"True."

She presses two fingers to her lower lip but seems unaware of it. "And then you kissed me so incredibly that I almost–."

He waits, but she just smiles again. Finally he can't wait any longer. "Almost what?" He knows he sounds like a sex-starved teenager and he doesn't care.

"That'll have to wait for another date, too."

"What are you doing tomorrow? Is breakfast tomorrow too soon for a second date?"

She glances at her watch–her father's watch, and one of the only things that survived the bomb in her apartment. "What time tomorrow?"

"Dawn? No, too early. I need my beauty sleep. You don't, but I do. You look perfect. Is nine all right?"

"You do remember that I have to work, don't you? Tomorrow is Friday. My shift starts at seven-thirty."

"How about six-thirty, then? A quickie before work."

"Castle," she says, as if rebuking him. "A quickie? That's at least a fifth date thing."

How has he survived this first date? He's already imagining a quickie, though what he really wants is at least an entire night, followed by an entire day, in bed with her. For starters. "A quick breakfast I meant. A quick breakfast."

She closes her eyes as if she were in deep contemplation. "Okay. It's eleven-thirty now. I guess seven hours is an acceptable amount of time between a first and second date." She pushes herself up and says, "I have to go home."

"You do?" He's going to need the world's coldest and longest shower.

"Yes, I do. Here, let me help you put all this stuff away first."

They've just finished wrapping up the Italian delicacies when a familiar, fluty voice precedes its owner into the kitchen./

""Richard? I'm home." And there she is, _mater interrupta_. "Oh! And Katherine! What a lovely surprise."

"Martha! Hi. I was just leaving."

"Not on my account, I hope."

"No, no. I just dropped in for a few minutes. I was out for a late run and suddenly had a craving for something from Caffe Roma, so I texted Mister Sweet Tooth here and asked if he wanted to join me. They were just about to close, so we got things to go and came over here."

He is stunned by her smooth delivery. Maybe she has an acting gene somewhere in her family, too.

"Also, we're working on a case, Castle might have told you. I saw Doctor Perlmutter at the morgue a few hours ago. He had a few things to tell me and that got me thinking and I ran them by Castle. I'm sure we'll make some headway in the morning."

A coughing fit so violent that it would alarm someone with bronchial pneumonia seizes him. He turns away from his mother and Beckett and bends over the sink, and soon feels a warm hand on his back.

"Are you all right?" Beckett asks, slapping him lightly between the shoulder blades.

He waves a hand weakly and croaks, "Fine. 'm fine." No, I am not fine. I am not fine, you seductress.

A bottle of water appears on his left. His mother has thoughtfully removed the cap. "Drink this, darling."

He really should pour it over his head, as he had at the cafe, since his coughing fit is essentially artificial. Still, he has to maintain the pretense, so he takes a few swallows, and a few more, and straightens up.

"Thank you. Something must have blown into my throat. Can't imagine what."

"Glad you're all right," Beckett says cheerfully. She would deny it, but he can tell that she's suppressing a laugh. "Good night, both of you."

"Good night," mother and son say, as one.

"Wasn't that nice," his mother says after Beckett has gone. "I loved those ballet flats she was wearing. You know, even when that gal is casually dressed, she has the most superb taste in shoes."

TBC

**A/N** Thank you very much for watching this new form of chess. Special thanks to all you guest reviewers, whom I can acknowledge only here.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

Martha is hardly up the stairs before she presses Cupid B on her contact list.

He must have the phone right next to him because he answers after the first ring. "Hello, Martha."

Ordinarily she would reply, as manners dictate, "Hello, Sidney," but she's far too excited to worry about etiquette. "We were right, Sidney," she says, perched at the foot of her bed. "The pawns made a move!"

"Oh, both of them? Who moved first? My money's on Beckett. And how did you find out already? You can't have been home more than a quarter of an hour."

"That's just it. When I walked in the door a few minutes ago, the two of them were in the kitchen. Katherine said that she'd been out for a run, though who would go out for a run at this hour I can't imagine."

"She's a cop. I don't think she worries about the mean streets of SoHo."

"Good point. So, she said that she'd had a craving for something from Caffe Roma, which as you probably know is right down Broome."

"I do. I love that place. It's been there since the eighteen nineties. I think they might still be using the original cash register."

"Richard thinks of it as some kind of temple. At any rate, Katherine said that she'd texted him and asked if he'd like to meet her there, which is more or less like offering a bottle of Grey Goose vodka to a drunk. Then she said that the place was closing up so they got pastries to go and came over here. And when I got home she said she was just leaving."

"Hang on Martha, that sounds a little suspicious to me. I'm just going to check the hours of Caffe Roma." In a matter of seconds, he's back. "Aha! It closes at eleven. That's less than forty-five minutes ago."

"I do know they went there, because the shopping bag was on the counter. But you're right. That sounds suspicious. Hmm. And another thing. Very important. She wasn't wearing running clothes. Not even sneakers. She had on, let me think, jeans, a sweater, and a pair of shoes that we bought the other day. And no make-up, if you can believe it. She looked stunning, of course. But who runs dressed like that, without sneakers?"

"Not she, I know. She's a serious runner."

"And I haven't even gotten to the really good part."

"I'm holding my breath."

She laughs. "Please exhale, this could take a while. I'm trying to remember exactly how she put it, so give me a moment."

There's silence on both ends of the line.

"Thank God for decades of having to learn lines," she continues. "I think I knew the instant she started talking that I had to pay attention to every word. Here goes. It's probably not verbatim, but close enough. She said that Richard might have told me that they're working on a case and that she saw you, Sidney, a few hours ago at the morgue. And then she said–and I'm sure that this is correct–'He had a few things to tell me and that got me thinking and I ran them by Castle. I imagine we'll make some headway now.' Richard was immediately seized by a fit of coughing, which I recognized as an act, not just because I'm his mother and on to his tricks, but because I taught him that very thing when he was about nine years old."

"You taught him that?"

"Mm hmm. It's a diversionary move that can come in handy in all sorts of situations, and this seems to have been one. He'd have convinced almost anyone, but he didn't fool me. I think I was supposed to believe that what the two of them discussed was what you'd discovered about your murder investigation. But I think what really happened was that she did just what we hoped."

"You mean told him that he makes her happy?"

"Precisely. When she said that something you talked about about got her thinking and she ran it by Richard? I think what she ran by him was that she agrees with you. Don't you think that's it? She looked radiant, and he looked whatever the male equivalent is. Ablaze, maybe? And crazy as he is for cannoli, I can guarantee that no pastry produced the expression on his face. He also looked amazed, as if he were still trying to absorb what she'd said."

The doctor laughs so hard that he begins to cough. "I apologize. That was a genuine cough, I assure you. It's just that the vision of Castle looking more ablaze over something other than pastry cracks me up. There have a number of occasions when I've had to remind him not to snack while looking at a body. 'Can't have crumbs all over a corpse,' I told him the first time, when he came in with a doughnut. And he said, 'But they're just on the sheet.' I thought Beckett was going to kill him on the spot."

They chat briefly and, because it's late, decide not to plot their next move. "Besides, I think we should wait and see what they do next on their own, don't you, Martha?"/

"I do. And I must say this new development leaves me quite aquiver."

That produces another laugh. "I see your son isn't the only wordsmith in the family."

"Really? What makes you say that?"

"You said you're aquiver. Very appropriate for someone who's playing Cupid, with arrows in a quiver. Good night, Martha."

"Good night, Sidney."

It's 5:30 in the morning. Castle would be ringing Beckett's doorbell already–hell, he'd have been ringing it hours ago–but he'd said breakfast at 6:30 and he's not pressing his luck by being early. He's more nervous than he'd been when he'd asked Barbara Wilson to the eighth-grade dance, the first date of his life. He'd kissed Barbara Wilson afterwards. She kissed nothing like Beckett. Granted, she hadn't had the practice. He grimaces. He doesn't want to think about the men that Beckett had kissed before she kissed him last night. Like Demming. He shudders.

To banish that image he goes over the menu for at least the tenth time. Coffee. Check. It's already in the thermos. Juice of passion fruit, oranges, and apples. Check. He'd made it in the blender a few minutes ago and put it in another thermos. Should be mention the passion fruit? Maybe she'll ask? Yeah, let her ask, that's good. Half dozen eggs. Check. He's not assuming that she has any, or any that aren't at least a month past their sell-by date. Butter. Check. A jar of raspberry jam. Check. He'll pick up bagels on the way there. He doesn't know what kind she likes best. He'll get an assortment. But what if the assortment doesn't include her favorite? He can't screw this up, so he'll get every kind they have. It's 5:47. He gets a canvas tote bag and packs it carefully. Next stop, the bagel place.

He's standing outside her building, shifting the tote bag from one hand to the other. It surprising how much a dozen bagels weigh, but he had to do it. Plain (seriously? who eats plain? she might), sesame, poppyseed, blueberry, cinnamon raisin, pumpernickel, onion, oat bran, chocolate chip, whole wheat, salted, everything. And how do they get away with calling it an "everything" bagel when it lacks a lot of things that other bagels have, including blueberries, chocolate chips, and cinnamon? The timer on his phone goes off. It's 6:29, at last, and he goes into the small outer lobby and presses her bell. The buzz that lets him in is music greater than anything that Beethoven or Springsteen or Hootie and the Blowfish ever produced.

Foregoing the elevator, which he regards as a deathtrap, he takes the stairs, two at a time. There she is, standing in the door. Lit from behind, she looks almost like a silhouette. He's never fallen for a silhouette before. Imagine falling in love with an outline. Hell of an outline, but still.

"Hey, Castle," she says. It's an unsung song that would leave Adele in the dust.

"Hey, Beckett. Ready for breakfast?" He's panting slightly, and not only because he ran up three flights.

"Yeah." She stands aside to let him in, and closes the door. "Whatcha got?"

What's he got? Oh, God, if only he could show her, right now. "If you set the table and slice the bagels, breakfast will be ready almost as soon as you're done."

While he's scrambling the eggs he hears the rustle of a paper bag opening. "How many people are you feeding, Castle?"

"Just us," he answers, looking quickly over his shoulder. Why?"

"There are enough bagels in here for the entire building."

"I didn't know what kind you like."

"So you brought everything?"

"Yes." He adds some pepper to the eggs, which are cooking perfectly. "Including an ill-named everything bagel."

"Ooh, sesame. My favorite. What do you want?"

"Cinnamon raisin."

She had put plates next to the stove, and he piles the eggs onto them and turns around. Breakfast for two in her apartment. It's such an unsettling brew of intimacy, easiness, and high tension that he's relieved that the chairs are only a few steps away. "Sit down," he says, and hands her a plate.

He has to force himself to eat, which is very nearly a first, because he's much more interested in watching her. "Delicious," she says after two bites, and then has some juice. "Mm, and so is this. What's in it? Besides orange, obviously."

"Apple." He considers before he goes on. "And passion fruit."

"Ah. Passion fruit. Trying to get me drunk or something, Castle?"

"I don't think passion fruit has any alcohol."

"No, but it has a name. A not so slightly suggestive name." She smiles enticingly and holds out her mug. "May I have some coffee, please?"/

"Of course, sorry." He uncaps the thermos and pours some for both of them.

She's looking him right smack in the middle of eye as she lifts the mug, but instead of sipping from it, she breathes across the surface, her lips pursed. She looks at it, repeats the procedure, and puts the mug back on the table.

"Something wrong with the coffee, Beckett?"

"No, no. Nothing wrong."

"But you're not drinking it?"

"No. I'm blowing. I told you, blowing is a second date thing. This is our second date, isn't it?"

Grateful that he has nothing in his mouth because he would either choke on it or it would come out his nose, he answers, "Yes." As it is, he feels like he's strangling. "It's hot in here," he adds.

"Hence the blowing, Castle."

"Keep this up and I might not survive to experience date number three."

She takes a long drink of coffee, and smiles across the rim at him. "Can't have that. I already see too many dead bodies at work." After eating a few mouthfuls of egg, she glances at her watch. "Speaking of work, I have to leave in a minute." She drains her mug. "I'm gonna take the rest of the bagel with me."

"And I'm going to wrap up the other ones and put them in your freezer, all right?"

She arches one brow, a trick he loves. "You counting on another breakfast date?"

"I live in hope."

While he packs up the rest of the things, she loads the dishwasher, leaves the frying pan to soak in the sink, and grabs her jacket. "Ready?"

"Didn't you forget something?"

"I don't think so." She puts her purse over her shoulder, and pats it. "Everything's in here, including the rest of my sesame-covered snack."

He drops his canvas tote on the counter, walks two steps forward, takes her in his arms, and kisses her as long and enthusiastically as he can. When he runs one hand under her blouse, he feels her shiver against his palm; when he cups her breast he feels her nipple react, and she moans into his mouth. But when she slides her arm down his, the sound of her purse hitting the floor brings the kiss to an end. "Second time this morning," he wheezes as he collapses against the fridge, "that you've left me breathless." He inhales deeply. "You forgot your kiss."

"Not going to forget that one," she says, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him towards her. "Let's–" Her phone rings. "Goddammit." She leans over to pick it up. "Beckett." She nods a few times, frowns, nods again, shuts and opens her eyes, all interspersed with "uh huhs" and "rights," until she finishes with, "Got it, Ryan. Thanks. I'm on my way."

"So was I," he mumbles, not quite loud enough for her to hear.

"I'm sorry. Have to go. We got a break in the case, maybe."

"Can I come with you?"

"No. That would raise a lot of flags I don't want to see flying. Come at your usual time."

He leans towards her so that their noses touch. "You sure?"

"Very."

When he arrives at the precinct at 9:00, the maybe break in the case has just become a definite break. By 3:00 the confession has been signed. As they dismantle the murder board–Ryan and Espo are busy with something else–he asks her quietly if she's free for a third date this evening. "One that might last longer than forty-five minutes," he says.

"I'm sorry, Castle, I can't. I'm having dinner with my father. Between his caseload and mine, we haven't seen each other in four weeks." She lowers her voice even more. "But tomorrow's Saturday."

"As I recall, though it's a distant memory, that's date night in America. Any chance?"

"Oh, definitely. Later, here come the boys."

He's already fidgeting this next morning. He doesn't know her sleep patterns–at least not yet, he thinks happily–but maybe she gets up late on the weekends. He waits until 9:15 and immediately regrets not having waited longer, because clearly he's woken her up.

"Castle? Ugh."

"Sorry, sorry, I'm too early. Don't blame you for ugh-ing me."

"Not ugh-ing you, 'm ugh-ing me. I'm sick as a dog."

"Food poisoning? Where did you eat?"

"Not that. Flu. Fever, chills, earache, feel sick at my stomach."

"I'll bring you–"

"Don't bring me anything, please. I'm probably Typhoid Mary. You feel okay?"

"I feel fine."

"Don't count on staying that way. Not after the way we kissed."

But he does stay that way. He remains healthy, but she's out all week. She does allow him to bring her soup, but insists that he leave it outside her door. When he calls her on Friday evening she reports that she's feeling much better. "Maybe you could come over tomorrow morning," she says. "You wouldn't even starve because I have ten bagels in the freezer."

"Believe it or not, I have to turn you down."

"Way to treat an invalid, Castle."

"It's just that I have that chocolate-making class at the CIA tomorrow, with Perlmutter. Could I come over after that? We'll probably be back around six."

"That's fine. Just remember I'm in a weakened state."

"I will."

"I could still probably outrun you, though. Or pin you down."

"Are we having a race? Or some kind of wrestling match?"

"We might."

TBC

**A/N** Cupids' Chess continues! Thank you very much for participating and for cheering them (and me) on. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

"Nice car," Perlmutter says approvingly, buckling himself into the passenger seat next to Castle, early Saturday morning.

"That's exactly what Beckett said," he replies. "The difference being that she drove it." It's not the only difference, but he doesn't give voice to what's in his mind, which is the vibrant memory of her, sex on wheels, cheeks flushed, nostrils flaring, as she'd sped through the dark streets. Not so dark that he couldn't see her bare thighs, exposed because her deliciously tight dress was hiked up. She'd been breathless. He'd been speechless.

"You let her drive your _Ferrari_?"

"Absolutely not. No way. There was no permission involved. She grabbed the keys from my hand as I was explaining the virtues and demands of this exquisite automobile, and just took over. There was no way I could stop her." He pulls away from the curb in front of the M.E.'s apartment building and heads for the West Side Highway. "We were using it to go undercover at a club. Much as I hate to admit it, and God knows I didn't tell her, she drives even better than I do."

"It's a job requirement, Castle. If you're behind the wheel of a squad car in this city, you need to be a hell of a driver if you want to stay alive."

"Good point."

Three hours later they're standing side by side at a stove, wearing aprons and carefully stirring saucepans of chocolate over low flames. "This is incredible, Perlmutter," he says, looking quickly around the enormous workspace at the Culinary Institute of America. "And I didn't know we'd get to keep these cool chef's hats."

"Makes you feel professional, doesn't it?"

"Definitely." He tips the pan and peers inside. "I think mine is finally melted. What about yours?"

"Yes. The last lump just dissolved. I think we're ready for the next step."

"At home," he whispers, "my next step would be to lick the spoon, but I have a feeling that would be frowned on here."

"It would," Perlmutter whispers in return, "though just between us I'm with you in the spoon-licking department."

"And you a doctor," he says in mock horror, hand over his heart. Perlmutter laughs.

By the end of the class they've spent a lot of time laughing. Everything that they've made is in boxes, and the boxes are loaded into shopping bags which they're carrying out to the car.

"What's your favorite?" Perlmutter asks as they load everything carefully into the trunk./

"The chocolate-covered caramels dusted with sea salt. No contest."

"Agreed. I'm not so sure about the truffles with lavender, are you?"

"I bet Beckett would like them. She puts lavender oil under her nose at particularly odoriferous crime scenes. But I think she'd like to associate it with something a lot better, like chocolate."

"Ah, ha. I do the same in the morgue sometimes. So, what are you going to do with all of these goodies?"

"Not sure. Alexis and my mother and I will eat some of them. I draw the line at taking them to the precinct. Those guys have no appreciation for gourmet anything. Except Beckett." Oh, geez, he's been trying to keep her out of the conversation and now he's mentioned her twice in a matter of seconds.

"I hope she's well enough to enjoy some. That flu really knocked her out."

"Right, right. I guess it did." Guess? Guess? He knows it painfully. He's been living on their week-old kiss for eight days.

"I made her some matzoh ball soup and took it over on Thursday. My grandmother swore it cured anything. As a physician, I have to deny it, but it does have astonishing curative properties."

What? Perlmutter got to see her and he'd been confined to leaving a shopping bag on her doorstep? Where's the justice in that? His hand trembles slightly on the gear shift. "You saw her?"

"Lord, no. She'd wouldn't let me in. Called herself the 'Grand Central of Germs.' I hung the bag on her doorknob. But she did call me yesterday and thanked me. Said she'd taken a big turn for the better."

"Good, good. She'll probably be back fighting crime on Monday." As if he doesn't know. As if he isn't calculating the minutes, not until Monday, but until this evening. He has time to kill before he can see Beckett. Might as well kill it with Perlmutter. "Hey," he says, now that they're on the road. "Are you hungry? We didn't get a lunch break in there and I'm starving."

"Me, too. I'd have suggested eating in one of the CIA restaurants, but you need to make reservations way in advance. I know a great diner in a strip mall in New Rochelle, believe it or not. Is that all right?"

"Sounds like my kind of place. The only thing I know about New Rochelle is that it's where Rob and Laura Petrie lived on the old _Dick Van Dyke Show_, which Alexis and I've watched endlessly in reruns. We still crack up every time he trips over the ottoman."

On the drive south they talk mostly about cooking, and by the time they get to the diner they're both ravenous. It's almost empty, since it's after lunchtime and well before dinner, even for the early-bird-special crowd, and they get a prized four-person booth. "Good timing," Perlmutter says. "An hour from now it'll be packed."

"Gotta love a diner with a signed photo of Ernie Anastos," he says of the man who has been anchoring a local New York City TV newscast since Castle was in elementary school.

"I've often wondered how Greeks cornered the good-diner market everywhere within a fifty-mile radius of Manhattan."

"Not to mention getting Ernie Anastos to eat there. Do you think that's his real hair?" Castle points to the framed photo with his spoon.

"Could be. Or a really good toupee. His hair hasn't changed in at least thirty-five years, which seems unlikely."

Their young waitress, Anastasia, probably the granddaughter of the owners, appears with their sandwiches and coffee. Halfway through his tuna salad on whole wheat Perlmutter says, "I'm surprised you didn't catch the flu, too. From Beckett."

When he coughs this time, it's legitimate. He's grateful that the chunk of BLT in his mouth doesn't either lodge in his throat and choke him to death or sail across the table and land on his lunch companion's head. He downs half a glass of water and assumes a calm demeanor. "The flu?"

"Just saying it's lucky you didn't get sick, considering the close quarters you and Beckett keep."

Close quarters? Is he talking about the aborted make-out session they'd had in the loft? How could he possibly know? "Sorry, what?"

"You know, in the car, breathing the same recycled air. And since you sit right next to her at the Twelfth. Don't you share a desk?"

"Er, not a desk. We don't share that. But I do sit by it. By her. Just lucky, I guess."

"Strong immune system, maybe."

"That's me. Healthy as a horse."

"It was nice of you to make her soup, too."

Okay, how did he find that out? Yeesh. "Right." He doesn't know what else to say without saying way more than he wants to, even if he is indebted to Perlmutter for opening Beckett's eyes. He'll thank him eventually, but not until he and Kate are a lot farther along than they are now.

Perlmutter has a little something in his eyes that Castle can't decipher. "She mentioned it when she phoned me. You're a good partner, Castle."

"Thank you."

"In many more ways than one. I think you and I are perhaps the only two who understand that Beckett isn't quite as tough as she'd like people to think." He picks up his cup, and waves his hand. "Ah, there's Anastasia. I could use a refill."

If this Anastasia were the reincarnation of another Anastasia, the youngest daughter of the last czar of Russia, he couldn't be more thrilled to see her. He asks her what grade she's in in high school. Asks her if she wants to go to college. Oh, good, she does. What does she want to study? When he's reasonably sure that he's shut down the line of conversation that he and Perlmutter had been having, he lets her go. Thanks her. Wishes her happiness and success.

"Hard work, being a waitress," he says. "Seems like a really good kid."

Perlmutter raises one eyebrow a fraction, unnervingly like Beckett, but he smiles and says, "She does."

When the girl returns with the check, Castle insists on picking up the tab. "It's the least I can do, Perlmutter. I never would have known about the chocolate class if it weren't for you." He extracts a $100 bill from his wallet and leaves it on the table. "Good luck at college," he writes on a paper napkin and sets it next to the tip.

It's a reasonably quick 20 miles back to the city. "This was a good day, Castle," Perlmutter says as they cross the bridge onto the island. "Thank you for the lift. My first ride in a Ferrari, and well worth the wait."

"You're welcome. Good day for me, too."

"You have plans for the evening?"

Uh-oh, he hadn't foreseen having to answer that question. "Just going over to a friend's." Does that sound casual? He's going for super casual. "We'll probably call out for something and watch a movie. I have a boatload of new DVDs." Quick, time for another diversion. "Oh, hey. I didn't ask what you're going to do with your chocolate stash."

"Since like you I'm a chocolate fiend, I'm sure that I'll eat far more of it than I should. But I also found out that the super of my building and his wife are celebrating their sixth wedding anniversary tomorrow. I'm very fond of both of them, and their little girl. She calls me Doctor Burma. Apparently candy is what's given for a sixth anniversary, so I'll wrap up some for them."

"Bet you're glad we made those chocolate lollipops, then."

"You read my mind."

And you come scarily close to reading mine, Castle thinks.

He drops off Perlmutter, races home, showers, shaves, and changes. He doesn't know how hungry Beckett will be, but chocolate is his version of Grandma Perlmutter's matzoh ball soup. All week he'd been mulling over what kind of flowers to bring her, and yesterday morning he'd finally decided. Fortunately he has a florist who can get anything in any season, and he'd given him enough warning for this. He stops there en route to Beckett's, then flags down a cab.

When she opens the door it's clear that she's a thinner, paler version of her usual self, dressed in yoga pants and a tunicky thing that clings to even her underweight frame. But she's also smiling. She's the happiest looking version of her self that he's ever seen.

"Hey, Castle."

"Hey, Beckett." He enters her apartment, wanting to hug her but feeling oddly tentative. Besides, his arms are full. "These are for you," he says, holding out the large bouquet.

"They're beautiful. Thank you." She takes one step to her left and rests it on the counter. And then she takes two steps forward so that she's right in front of him. Nothing tentative about her. "I want you to know that I've been cleared for this." She grabs his face and kisses him, a wide-open-throttle one, prolonged and deep.

"Oh, my God," he says afterwards, only partially recovered. "That was like being in my Ferrari, times ten. Every part of me is humming. And vibrating."

"You calling me a car, Castle?"

"No."

"You saying I got your motor racing?"

"You could say that."

"I figured." Her eyes are sparkling.

"You say your doctor cleared you for that?"

"For kissing? Yes."

"Does your doctor know you kiss like that?"

"You're the only person who knows I kiss like that, Castle."

He can hardly believe it, hardly believe anything that's happening, so he pulls himself together just long enough to be practical. "Much as I'd love to stand here and make out with you for a very, very long time, you've been sick all week and I've been standing most of the day, so I vote for sitting down."

"You go in the living room. I'll come in as soon as I've put the flowers in water."

It's not until he's in the next room that he realizes that he's still holding the bag from the CIA, and he drops it onto the sofa.

"Irises are one of my favorites," he hears her say, and turns around to see her coming in with a gray pottery vase full of them. "Especially blue ones."

"There's a reason."

"A reason they're blue? Isn't that the way nature made them?" Her eyes are sparkling even more than they had been a few minutes ago.

"No, there's a reason that I brought you blue iris, as opposed to some other color, like yellow or purple. Or some other flower entirely, like roses."

She sets the vase on the coffee table and puts her hands on her hips. "You gonna tell me, or make me guess?"

"Blue iris stands for faith and hope." What the hell, just say it. Don't drag it out. He reaches for her hand and folds his own around it. "I have enormous faith in us, and I hope you do, too."

"Come here," she whispers, and tugs them down onto the sofa with her. "Yes. Yes. I do, I have enormous faith in us, Castle. And you know what?"

"What?"

"You remember that I told you that you make me happy?"

"Remember? If you dropped me on my head from the top of the Empire State Building and then ran over me with a cement mixer I'd remember that."

"I'm glad. But here's something else." Her voice is soft now, soft and low and slow, as if she wants to give weight to every word. "You give me hope. Hope in a lot of things. Hope for a lot of things. I wanted you to know that before I kiss you again."

"Are you going to kiss me again? Now?"

"I am. I hope you'll like it."

Several minutes later, by which time neither of them is wearing a shirt, he says, "I like this. I really like this. Really, really, really like this."

"Do you think there's room for improvement, Castle?" She brushes his hair off his damp forehead.

"You mean you can kiss even better than that?" He doesn't know where to look, at her perfect breasts, at the sweat glistening between her perfect breasts, or at her lips, which are already slightly swollen. "Hard to believe. Impossible to believe. But if you want to try to prove me wrong, I won't object."

She sizes him up like a magnificent tiger about to eat her prey. "I think there's a lot of room for improvement. But for starters, we'll need to take off the rest of our clothes. 'member what I said on the phone last night? That we might have a race?"

He nods, because speech isn't coming easily at the moment.

"Want to race me to my bed?"

"Is that in the room for improvement?"

She giggles, and rolls her eyes, and the combination is all too much for him. In one quick move, he picks her up and runs to her bedroom with her in his arms. After he drops her softly onto the bed, she pushes herself up on one elbow and grabs him by the waistband of his jeans. And then she unzips them, and slips her hand inside. "See?" she says, looking up at him, her head thrown back and her long neck exposed. "This is already an improvement, in just seconds. A very, very big improvement. Huge."

Martha is in the kitchen of the quiet loft, her phone in her hand and a cup of coffee next to her. She can't remember when she last was up at this hour. Maybe when Richard was teething.

"I hope I'm not too early," she types. "You said you got up at six."

The reply comes as she's having her second sip. "I've been awake since five, dying to know if you have a report."

"I do! You have to have been right that the so-called friend he was going to visit and maybe watch movies with was Katherine."

"You're sure?"

"Oh, yes. The first clue is that he left a note by the phone on his desk about picking up irises from the florist. I just happened to notice it last night. At midnight. When I happened to check his office."

"And the second clue?"

"I tiptoed into his bedroom just now. He's not there, and the bed hasn't been slept in."

"Oh, my. You know what this could be, Cupid A?"

"What?"

"I believe it could be checkmate."

**A/N** Don't worry. We'll get back to the lovebirds in the next chapter.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** The only part of_ Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

**A/N** You probably won't be surprised that there's an M-rated section in this chapter. If you want to avoid it, please stop reading at the start of the third paragraph, "She's reached his fingers," and start again at the paragraph that begins, "Later, when the sheet is even more wrinkled than it had been…"

Because there's no such thing as total darkness in Manhattan, nothing approaching it, even at 1:30 a.m. she can see him quite clearly, stretched out on her bed. What she can't see she can remember. Oh, what she remembers; every one of her senses, not just sight, remembers equally. He's lying on his stomach, head on a pillow and turned towards her. His right arm lies along his side, palm facing up; his left is bent at the elbow, his hand palm down on the rumpled sheet. The very rumpled sheet. The bottom sheet. The top one hit the floor some time ago, she's unsure when. Doesn't care, either. This is all she cares about at the moment. Him. Here.

With her fingertip hovering half an inch above his skin, she traces his silhouette, starting at his head. It takes more willpower than she has ever called on before not to touch him, but she doesn't. She begins at his crown, where a bit of hair is sticking straight up. There's something so adorable about it, so little-boyish, that she almost melts. Very slowly she moves her finger to his neck, then onward to his spine. She stops at his trapezius muscles. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, little-boyish about his upper back. The skin–the softest skin she's ever encountered on a man–is pulled tight across it. She may not be in contact with it, but she knows exactly how it feels, and what the musculature underneath can do. Has done to her. The sensation of it as it moved against her, or with her. Her fingernail takes a left turn across his delts and triceps before inching down his biceps. His arm. Jesus, his arm. He picked her up off the bed with one arm, that arm. Didn't even break a sweat. Well, not strictly true, since by then both of them were sweating. But it seemed so effortless when he did it. So full of lust and love.

She's reached his fingers, about which, were she a poet–a pornographic poet, but a poet–she could write a great deal, based on her experience of the last few hours. She's suddenly aware that her breathing has accelerated, and she's beginning to feel warm. Very warm. In her interior. Certain parts of her interior. Her eyes travel up to his face, and see his mouth twitch. She pauses to make sure that he's still asleep. His mouth twitches again, which only makes her think of how she felt when he twitched inside her. When he stopped thrusting, so that he twitched, throbbed, pulsated. It seemed to go on forever, but not long enough. Who knew the man was capable of such control? It was in their second round. In the first he wore a condom; for the second she insisted that he not. "I want to feel all of you in me, Castle. Everything. Don't you?" His answer was to reach over her and shut the drawer of her bedside table.

Trying to clamp down on several things, including that recent, highly charged memory, she forces her hand to return to the air directly above his spine. But then, inevitably, she reaches his ass, and that's too much. She can see a few deep, red impressions that her fingernails made there as she urged him closer to her, not that he'd needed urging. Neither one them needed or needs any urging tonight. They're both naked. Exposed. He is a far more open person than she, but in the last few hours she opened herself to him, exposed her soul, as she never has to anyone. She can't not touch him now. She rolls over, kisses the small of his back, and simultaneously squeezes his butt.

"Beckett? 's that you?"

She chuckles. "Who'd you think it was?"

His eyes open wide. "I was having a dream about you, but this is even better."

"It is, huh?"

"Much. Come up here." He moves onto his back, pulls her on top of him, and kisses her until they both run out of breath.

"Mmm. You're awake." Her hand moves across the swell of his chest, slows down across the flat terrain of his stomach, and then wraps around him. "So's Dick," she coos, and she's never been a cooer. "Dick is very awake. Seems very ready for action."

"So do you, Beckett. You're already getting Dick a little wet." He laughs and adds, "Never thought you could be so corny."

"Corny?" she asks in mock indignation. "You think there's anything corny about this?" She slithers halfway down his body and takes him in her mouth. The noises–deliciously filthy though unintelligible–that this produces from him would be right at home in her pornographic poem.

She's reveling in them, in him. Until he says, "Stop."

Reluctantly, she releases him. "Stop?"

"Stop. Much as I love what you're doing to me–I'm a writer, but I don't think I could adequately describe the affect you're having on me–right now I want us both to–"

He doesn't have to finish the sentence. Her brief moment of regret vanishes as she rises up, braces herself on her knees, and sinks down on him. "Aaaahhhh, fuck, Castle, you feel so good."

"You, too," he says, surging up to devour one of her breasts as eagerly as she had just devoured him.

Later, when they're a tangle of arms and legs on top of the sheet that's even more wrinkled than it had been–one corner has popped off the mattress–she realizes two things. One big, one small. The small one can be addressed immediately. She's hungry. She hasn't had dinner. Worse, she's burned off enough calories for a week, but in the last week her caloric intake has been almost non-existent. "Castle," she says, nudging his foot with hers. "I'm starving."

"Do you still have those bagels in the freezer?" He's lightly scratching a spot between her shoulder blades. It's heaven.

"Yup."

"Which ones do you think would go well with truffles?"

"Truffles as in what a pig finds, or truffles as in chocolate?"

"Chocolate."

"I don't know why I asked, since I don't have either." She tilts her head so she can see him, even at an odd angle. In any angle, he looks perfect. "But in this academic exercise, I'd say truffles as in pig would be okay with pumpernickel or onion or whole wheat. Truffles as in chocolate? I guess chocolate chip. Or plain. Better with plain. Or maybe poppyseed."

"I knew there was a reason I bought plain. Come with me." He grabs her hand and hauls them both out of bed.

"I hope we're not going out. I have nothing to wear. Well, I do, but I'm wearing nothing and I want to stay that way for the rest of the night.

He comes to a halt at the end of the sofa and points. "Aha, right where I left it," he says, picking up a shopping bag and offering it to her. "I brought you two of the things that I made at the CIA yesterday. Truffles with lavender, which I'm hoping will be right up your alley, and chocolate-covered caramels with sea salt, which I thought were the best thing I'd ever tasted until around nine o'clock."

"What happened at nine o'clock?"

"I tasted you."

They go to the kitchen, where Castle finds that she still has soup in the fridge–some of his, some of Perlmutter's. He heats them up and toasts two bagels; they carry everything back to her room on a tray and eat sitting up in her bed. The chocolates are their dessert. "I had dinner at Per Se once," she says, licking carrel from her thumb.

"Hope you weren't paying. That place costs a fortune. Incredible food though, right?"

"Not as good as this."

"Maybe because you weren't eating in bed."

"Maybe because I wasn't eating with you." She tilts sideways and rests her head on his shoulder.

"You going to church in the morning, Beckett?"

"Church?" What is he talking about? She lifts her head. "Why?"

"Because you've done some incredibly sinful things to me tonight."

"Right back atcha. But speaking of sin, this chocolate really is diabolically good."

"You can thank Perlmutter for that. I'd never have known about that class."

"Oh, I will. But not now. I'm going to take the dishes to the kitchen, and then I'm going to sleep. Seriously, sleep."

"Did I wear you out?"

"In the best possible way. Ways."

"I could say the same of you. In fact, I will. You wore me out in the best possible way. Ways. Quite a few ways."

When she returns from the kitchen she finds that he has fixed the bottom sheet and put the top one back on the bed. "Thank you," she says. "Come on, let's brush our teeth. I'll give you a brand-new toothbrush."

"Wow, this is a full-service establishment."

"Sorry I don't have your million-dollar shower, though."

"Is that an invitation to take a shower with you?"

"Yes, but not until morning."

"I can wait."

Settled back in bed, she rolls over and kisses Castle lightly on the mouth. And then, as naturally as if she's been doing this for years, she curls up against his side, thinking as she drifts off that no pillow in the world is as comfortable as he.

(Ten-day time jump)

She and Castle had agreed to keep their relationship a secret for a while. On weekdays, when she gets home from the precinct, she takes a nap, knowing that he'll arrive around midnight. At 5:30 in the the morning, which is when she gets up to get ready for work, he goes back to the loft to make breakfast for his daughter and see her off to school.

They'd almost been busted last Thursday. He had just come in his front door and hadn't even hung up his coat when Alexis had trotted down the stairs.

"Dad? Are you just getting home?"

"No. I was just going out because I woke up with this craving for cinnamon rolls. The bakery opens in a couple of minutes. Why are you out of bed so early?"

"Last-minute cramming for my biology exam."

"Good thing I'm getting those cinnamon rolls, then. Brain food. I'll be right back."

At the precinct later that morning he'd said, "I hated lying to her. Not even sure she believed me."

"Well, we won't have to keep it from her forever."

This evening, while she's waiting for Castle to arrive, her phone pings with an incoming email. Huh, Perlmutter. And it's addressed to Castle, too.

"I apologize for the somewhat short notice, but I'm hoping that both of you are free on Saturday evening for dinner at my apartment. Nothing fancy, I assure you, but I've been wanting to try out a couple of new recipes and I want to use that as a way to thank Castle for the ride in his Ferrari, which was the four-wheel treat of a lifetime! And Beckett, I'm including you in the invitation not only because I enjoy your company, especially outside the confines of the morgue, but because I want to see for myself that you're eating well after your recent horrible bout with the flu."

Whoa, that's a surprise. She rereads the invitation and chews it over. There's something slightly fishy here. She's been over the flu for a week and a half, and Perlmutter has seen her at two murder scenes in that time. Oh, she knows what's going on. He's trying to be a matchmaker. Trying to put her and Castle together in a relaxed social situation. Ha, if only he knew how late he was! Still, he's the one who gave her the courage to–well, to everything. She can't wait for Castle to get here, and just as she's thinking that he texts her.

"Did you see Perlmutter's email?"

"Yup."

"Want to go?"

"Are you kidding? Of course."

"Good. It's a date, so to speak. See you in a couple of hours. xox"

When she opens the door for him at 12:15, she's humming.

"What's that?" he asks, after stepping inside and kissing her intensely.

"Oh, a song I thought appropriate." And then she sings a bit from it:

"Matchmaker, Matchmaker,  
Make me a match,  
Find me a find,  
Catch me a catch."

"Ah, _Fiddler on the Roof_. Of course. Alexis's school did that when she was in seventh grade."

"Don't you think that Perlmutter is playing matchmaker? He has no clue that I've already found me a find and caught me a catch."

"So have I."

Later, when they're lying on their backs and talking quietly in bed, he says, "You know what the best part of all this is?"

"What?"

"That we were friends first."

"Ohhhh, no. We were adversaries first. I wanted to kill you almost every day for ages."

"Aren't you glad you didn't?"

"Very. And you're right, I love that we were friends before we were lovers. Reminds me of something Eudora Welty wrote."

He sits upright. "Beckett! You get more perfect by the second. You're a Eudora Welty fan?"

"Of course I am."

"What were you going to say about her?"

"She said that 'Friendship and love know each other and avail themselves of each other'."

"That's the truth. Wish I'd written that."

"Well, you wrote Nikki Heat."

He chuckles. "Not exactly Weltyesque, but thank you. Hey, are you excited about dinner at Perlmutter's?"

"Definitely. i really do think he's playing Cupid. Maybe we would bring him a little red bow and some little red arrows."

"Red wine, anyway." And with that, they fall asleep.

At the same time on Broome Street, Martha Rodgers sees an incoming text on her phone, which is lying next to her on the top of her bed. "Ah, Cupid B," she says happily, as she taps the screen.

"The pawns are coming to dinner!"

She beams, and quickly types her response. "Ta da!"

TBC

**A/N** Thank you all.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

On Saturday evening, the (partially) uncaged lovebirds are in her elevator on their way to the street and then to Perlmutter's apartment.

"Do you think we should show up together, or separately?" Beckett asks.

His response is immediate. "Together."

"Of course you'd say that. But seriously, together or apart? And if we're standing side by side on the doormat, are we there as a couple–"

"You meaning holding hands?"

"I guess. But we could still arrive together and stand there as though nothing is going on between us. Maybe that's a good compromise."

"You do remember that he invited us in one email?"

"I do," she says, striding out of the elevator in the magnificent pair of the boots that she'd bought on the shopping spree with Martha. It seems so long ago. "Doesn't mean he thinks we're together, Castle. Quite the opposite."

"Okay. Together, but apart. We're taking my car."

"No argument from me."

Four miles uptown, Sidney Perlmutter looks around his living room. Everything is in place, including the new and very important prop for the stage that he has been mentally setting for a long time. In the kitchen, the rice is in the cooker, and the rest of the main course is in covered saucepans, staying warm on the back of the stove. The dining table looks handsome with its Indian-print mats and napkins, and a vase full of colorful (he would expect nothing less) flowers that Martha provided. The hors d'oeuvres and glasses are on the coffee table. Perhaps he shouldn't be thinking of them as hors d'oeuvres, since they're vegetable samosas and batata vada. Nothing French about those. When the doorman calls on the intercom to say that the pawns–although he announces them as Ms. Beckett and Mr. Castle–are on their way up, he takes off his apron and hangs it on a hook in the kitchen.

"Beckett and Castle," he says as he opens the door. "Welcome. Please come in. I do love prompt guests." It occurs to him that they are a gorgeous couple. A gorgeous couple who clearly think they're presenting a we're-just-friends-and-colleagues picture, when they might as well have a neon sign over their heads that says WE ARE MADLY IN LOVE AND BARELY MANAGING TO KEEP OUR HANDS OFF EACH OTHER.

"What a beautiful apartment, Perlmutter," she says. "I envy you all this light. North and west, what a combo." She hands him a bottle of wine. "I didn't know what you were making, though I can make a good ballpark guess now, so I bought white. The oenophile here–" she jerks her thumb at Castle, "has red. He didn't say what, but I can guarantee it will put mine in the shade."

"Oops, yes, here's mine," Castle says, presenting him with a bottle of Chateau de la Tour pinot noir. He's so unnerved by the extravagance that he almost drops it.

"Thank you. Totally unnecessary but I'm delighted. We'll have both of them. Why don't I open them and you make yourselves comfortable? We can start with Beckett's Sauvignon blanc and let the red breathe." While he's in the kitchen busying himself with that, he wonders where they'll sit. He bets one will be on the sofa, and the other on a chair. When he returns to the living room with the two bottles he silently congratulates himself. She's on the sofa, he's on a chair.

They briefly talk shop, but as soon as Castle devours a flaky samosa–"Oh my God, this is incredible"–the talk turns to Indian food.

"Try not to drool," Beckett says, passing her partner a cocktail napkin. "Did you take a CIA class in this, Perlmutter?"

"No. I worked in a hospital in the Himalayas for a year, not long after med school, and that got me started." And that, he realizes, gives him the perfect entry. "Got me started on chess, too."

"You play chess?" Castle asks.

"Didn't you notice the board over there in the corner?" Beckett says. "Some detective you are."

"Well, as you're so fond of reminding me, I don't actually have a badge."

The ideal prompt for him to jump in. "Do you play, Castle?"

"No. Chinese checkers is more my speed."

"I do," Beckett says. "My father taught me, but I haven't played in ages. I miss it. That set looks interesting. Do you mind if I take a look?"

Mind? Why would he mind? He's ecstatic that she's taken the bait. "Not at all. Please do. I bought it just a couple of weeks ago. Maybe we could have a game sometime." Maybe we could have a game, oh my.

She walks around the corner of the sofa and bends over slightly to examine the black-and-white acrylic set. "Wow! Castle, come look at this. All the pieces are New York City buildings. The Freedom Tower is the king, right? Even though it's not quite finished. Empire State Building is the queen, Flatiron is the knight. Oh, and Castle, you'll like this." She smiles and points. "The Guggenheim is the rook. You really should play this game if one of the pieces is called the rook."

By now he has joined her, and there's less than half an inch of space between their shoulders. "What are the pawns?"

Sidney Perlmutter seldom dances, but at this moment he's aching to throw himself into a jig and sing, "You are! You two are the pawns!" Instead he walks over sedately and explains, "They're brownstones."

"That's perfect," Castle says. "The classic old Manhattan row house."

"It looks like you're in the middle of a game," Beckett says.

"I am. Nearly finished. Just a move or two away." He stifles a smile. "Would you like to eat?"

"Yes, please," Castle says. "I'm starving."

"Me, too. It smells fantastic."

He waves a hand at the table, "Please, sit down. Everything's ready. I just have to put things in serving dishes. Castle's wine should be ready to pour, if you'd like to do the honors."

In the kitchen, he checks his watch. Perfect timing. He steps closer to the door, but not so close that the others can see him. Sure enough, Beckett has noticed. She's lowered her voice, but he can still hear her.

"Do you think someone else is coming? There's a fourth place setting."

"There must be. Funny he didn't say anything."

He pops the naan into the microwave to warm, and spoons the rice into a bowl. Just as he's ladling the chicken tikka masala into another bowl, the doorbell chimes. His fellow Cupid is right on schedule. "Castle?" he calls out. "Would you mind getting that? My hands are full and I'm sure it's my other dinner guest." He picks up the two dishes, and lurks in the doorway to watch.

"Hello, I'm–. Mother?" He takes an involuntary step backward as if he's just been hit by a 250-pound linebacker.

"Hello, darling," she says, preceded by a cloud of perfume and tangerine-colored gloves. "And Katherine! How lovely to see you."

Castle has not budged; Beckett, who is either slightly less stunned than he or shocked into movement or both, walks quickly to Martha and gives her a hug. "Lovely to see you, too. What is that wonderful perfume?"

"Do you like it? I picked it for this evening. Guerlain Samsara. Samsara is Sanskrit for flowing around." She twirls her gloves. "Very important in Indian philosophy."

"Mother?" Castle repeats, though at a more normal pitch and not the squeak of a little boy.

"Yes, dear. I'm glad you recognized me, even though I changed my signature scent. We most flow with the times. Speaking of flowing, where's our host?"

That's his cue to re-enter the living room. "Right here, Martha. I apologize for not greeting you myself, but I was up to my elbows in food. Thank you for the flowers. They're perfect, as you can see. Please do sit down. I'm sorry you said that couldn't be here for the appetizers, but there's plenty of dinner to eat." He puts the rice and chicken on trivets on the tabletop and squeezes Martha on the shoulder. "I'll just go get the bread and the vegetables. Please, do start helping yourselves and I'll be right back. Don't want anything getting cold." Cold? Ha. The heat the pawns are generating could roast a turkey without an oven.

When he returns with a basket of naan and a bowl of spinach and cauliflower bhaji his guests are passing things around. "Ah, this is nice," he says, taking a seat. "I think four is perfect for supper. Makes conversation so easy."

Castle appears to be choking.

"Are you all right? Too spicy for you?"

"No, no." He takes several sips of water. "Not at all. It's great. I'm just surprised to see my mother. Here, I mean. At your house."

"Oh, yes, he invited me–when was it, Sidney? Monday?"

He nods, keeping an eye on the pawns' reaction. "Yes, Monday. We met for coffee at that new place on Ninth Avenue and you were telling me about the preview you'd seen of _What Time Is It?_ And you said, 'It's not ready for prime time, that's for sure'."

"And then you said," she stops and tosses her hair dramatically. He notices that the color is almost identical to that of her gloves. "'I think _we_ are, though'."

"Ready for what?" Castle's fork, dripping with masala sauce, has stopped halfway between his mouth and his plate.

"Prime time, sweetheart. This dinner. The end of the chess game."

"You don't even play chess, Mother."

"Oh, I think you'll be surprised."

"Uh, if I may break in here," Beckett interjects. "On the subject of surprise, I didn't realize that you two–you and Perlmutter, Martha–even knew each other."

"We're good friends."

"You are?" Castle sounds as shocked as he looks.

It's his turn. "We are, indeed. We discovered that we have some interests in common when we bumped into each other outside an off-Broadway show. Your mother had an extra ticket and saw me in the returns line, and that was that."

"I recognized him from the Precinct holiday party. It was such a relief to see him. You can't imagine the scruffiness of the other people in that line. I couldn't have borne sitting next to any of them."

A wide-eyed Beckett turns to him. "Do you go to the theater a lot?"

Not the first question he'd expected, but that's fine. "Oh, yes. I'm amazed that Martha and I had never seen each other at a play before that one."

"How is it that I never heard about this, Mother?"

"Well, I'm sure that I'd have told you, except for another interest that the good doctor and I learned that we shared. Now let me have a few bites of this sensational meal."

He can see Castle squirming, but he can also see that he's enjoying his food.

A few silent minutes elapse before Martha makes an enthusiastic request. "You must give this divine chicken recipe to my son, Sidney."

"It would be my pleasure."

"Thank you," Castle says.

"Yes, thank you," Beckett adds, immediately before a panicked look comes into her eyes. Yes, she has given something away. He can easily draw the inference that Castle is cooking for her. She must really be rattled.

"To return to the subject of chess, Perlmutter, did you teach my mother how to play?"

"Not exactly. But I'd say you put the game in motion, wouldn't you, Martha?"

She happily hums her assent.

"It's not the traditional game of chess."

"It's a variation. Sidney came up with the name."

"I did. We call it Cupids' Chess. Martha is Cupid A, and I'm Cupid B. We're not opponents, as we would be in ordinary chess; we're on the same side. It would be more accurate to say that we're on the sidelines. We're coaches, coaching the players."

"The players? Who are the players?" Castle asks, a certain amount of desperation in his voice. Dawn appears to breaking on Beckett's face, but not on his.

"The two of you. Oh, kiddos, you needed a nudge. I played what Sidney called the opening gambit, with Katherine."

Beckett jumps to her feet. "Wait! Wait." Her eyes narrow. "It was the shoe sale, wasn't it? You softened me up with that and then when we had coffee afterwards you were telling me that Castle and I were so good for each other. You were trying to throw us together."

"It's true. You're meant for each other and it was obvious to Sidney, not just to me, that you're crazy about each other. But neither one of you would make a move, and that was driving me crazy. Hence Cupids' Chess. And then Sidney played his opening gambit, which was to give that peanut brittle to Richard."

Beckett plops down on her chair, waving her napkin as if in surrender. "I knew it. I knew it. I didn't really suspect you, Martha, but I was sure that Perlmutter was up to something. When he sent that dinner invitation email I said to Castle that I really did think he was playing Cupid and that maybe we should bring him a little red bow and some little red arrows."

"I'm afraid that Martha and I called you our pawns, but all in a good cause."

Castle comes to life at last. "How do you now it worked?" His sham indignation would fool a lot of people, but no one in this room. "What makes you think that Beckett and I are together?"

He can't hold off any longer, and he gives in to the urge to laugh. And laugh and laugh, and so does Martha. She's the first to speak.

"As you're fond of saying, Richard, you can't be serious. The blind could see that you two are in love. The insensate would be tingling with it. And as your mother I have to tell you that I could set a clock by when you sneak out to Katherine's every night, and when you return. As Sidney said when I told him, a couple of weeks ago, 'I believe this could be checkmate'. "

"Oh, my God," Castle groans, and buries his face in his hands.

He turns his attention to Beckett. Her cheeks are bright red, and she has pushed her chair away from the table. Is she going to bolt? Have he and Martha overstepped their bounds? He watches the detective move to Martha's side, then put her arms around her and kiss her on the cheek. And then she moves over a chair and does the same to him. After which she goes to Castle, pulls his hands away from his cheeks, and kisses him on the lips for an astonishingly long time.

"There," she says a little short of breath. "Castle may be mortified, and I admit that I'm embarrassed. But thank you, Cupid A and B. I wish that I had brought those bows and arrows, though at the moment the other pawn might use them to shoot you. I, on the other hand, am grateful." She pushes her hair off her forehead and smiles. "Wings, I should have brought you wings, too. And not to rush you, Perlmutter, but are we having dessert? I'm dying for something sweet. Being with Castle gives me a hell of an appetite."

Castle is still gaping, but finally says, "How much have you had to drink, Kate?"

"Almost nothing. But I feel so free. And happy. Funny that we thought we'd played them, isn't it? When they're the ones who played us."

Later, over the decidedly unIndian dessert of chocolate mousse that has loosened Castle's tongue, they swap stories of the last several weeks. But at the end of the evening, it's Beckett who truly surprises him with her forthrightness.

"Martha," she says, as they're all buttoning on their coats. "Is Alexis at home?"

"No, she's spending the night at her friend Page's."

"Good. Would you mind if I stayed at the loft tonight?" She grabs Castle's hand. "Lover boy here has been saying that his bed is more comfortable than mine, and it's about time I found out."

**A/N** Today, September 29, is National Coffee Day, which seems like a good time to wrap up a Castle-and-Beckett story. And to those who celebrate Rosh Hashanah, Shana Tova! Thank you all for being here when so many Castle fans long ago abandoned this site. It's always wonderful to hear from you. Until next time!


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